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================================================
InterText Vol. 1, No. 3 / September-October 1991
================================================
Contents
FirstText ........................................Jason Snell
Short Fiction
Juliet and the Appliances_...................Christopher Shea_
Parisian Pursuit_.............................Carlo N. Samson_
The Piano Player_...................................Will Hyde_
Peoplesurfing_....................................Jason Snell_
The Damnation of Richard Gillman_.................Greg Knauss_
....................................................................
Editor Assistant Editor
Jason Snell Geoff Duncan
jsnell@etext.org gaduncan@halcyon.com
....................................................................
Send subscription requests, story submissions, and
correspondence to intertext@etext.org
....................................................................
InterText Vol. 1, No. 3. InterText (ISSN 1071-7676) is published
electronically on a bi-monthly basis. Reproduction of this
magazine is permitted as long as the magazine is not sold
(either by itself or as part of a collection) and the entire
text of the issue remains intact. Copyright 1991, 1994 Jason
Snell. Individual stories Copyright 1991 by their original
authors.
....................................................................
FirstText by Jason Snell
===========================
This is becoming a habit for me.
I'm sitting here in the offices of the UCSD Guardian, staring at
the screen of the Macintosh IIfx I use to lay out InterText.
Everything else is done... except this grand column thing called
FirstText.
So here I go again.
August's Soviet coup certainly showed the power of computer
networks, didn't it? The coup plotters (as David Letterman would
remind us, the Couplotters lived next door to him growing up in
Indiana) didn't think to cut electronic mail links, fax
machines, and modems. Boris Yeltsin used a modem to dispatch
communiques to locations throughout the Soviet Union. Several
major news services ran interviews with Russians that were
conducted via e-mail.
Fascinating things. I was hoping to write an article about this
subject for this issue, but haven't had the time. Perhaps for
next issue. If anyone knows the network address of people in the
Soviet Union, please let me know. Also, a friend of mine will be
studying in Leningrad (or should I say St. Petersburg?) until
December, and will be trying to contact me via e-mail. If we can
get her on-line, we may see some Soviet dispatches from her in
these pages. We can only hope.
All in all, it's very encouraging to think that George Orwell
was wrong, wrong, wrong. Technology is not a tool of
totalitarianism, but rather a tool to destroy it. Computers,
faxes, and photocopiers enabled people to get the word out even
after the broadcasters and newspapers were cut off from the
citizens of the country.
I'm sure if Orwell was alive, he'd find the fact that technology
helped overturn totalitarianism quite good news. Even if it
contradicted 1984.
_Minutae:_
I'd like to again encourage as many of the PostScript
subscribers as possible to go over to the ftp-notification list.
If you can ftp and uncompress files, it's a lot better that you
get your issues that way then via these ridiculously long
mailings I end up doing every two months.
The notification list receives a small mail message when the
issue comes out, letting them know that they can go ahead and
ftp the thing.
For those of you who can't ftp, you'll have to stick with the
unwieldy process of slapping these PostScript files together.
Sorry, but there's really no other way.
One more thing about FTP sites: I've managed to locate
network.ucsd.edu's IP number. If you need it, drop me a line and
I'll tell you what it is. It should also appear in November's
InterText. And back issues of InterText are also available, at
least for the time being, at eff.org, in the /journals folder.
So, with that out of the way, I thought I'd make mention of the
fact that we're finally starting to get some submissions...
despite the fact that it's summertime. I expect both circulation
and submissions to increase as college students return from
their summer break, so we'll see how it goes. But InterText #4
already has some potential stories. It's a nice feeling. Keep
the submissions coming.
This issue's cover, like the others, is by godlike artist Mel
Marcelo, graphics editor of the _Guardian_. It (kind of, sort
of, by luck more than anything else) represents our lead story
this issue, "Juliet and the Appliances" by Christopher Shea.
Assistant editor Geoff Duncan and I were both impressed by this
story, submitted for Christopher by one of his friend with
Internet access. Chris' connection to the computer world is via
CompuServe, where he has an account.
Also making appearances this issue are Carlo Samson, who has
written previously for Dargonzine, and newcomer Will Hyde. In
addition, a story I wrote for the final issue of Athene (the one
that never appeared) surfaces here, as does yet another story
from Greg Knauss, this one a bit longer than his previous
efforts.
Hopefully next issue we'll be able to bring you more stories
from the "lost" Athene -- Geoff and I are in the process of
tracking down Jim McCabe, Athene's editor. In addition, I hope
we'll be able to provide back issues of Athene at some point
down the line. Also, Phil Nolte, who shared Assistant Editor
credits on the first issue of InterText has regained net access
and should rejoin us next issue.
Juliet and the Appliances by Christopher Shea
================================================
Juliet's kitchen was an attractive place. At the far end of the
long, narrow room two tall windows let generous amounts of light
in. A huge refrigerator sat in one corner, its hum so quiet that
it was felt rather than heard. Next to it was a broad gas stove
and an electric range, and over the stove was a shelf of
gleaming cookbooks, new as the day they were bound. Other racks
held a dizzying variety of instruments-- metal, plastic, and
wooden tools for manipulating food in every way imagined by
humankind. Along the other wall a row of cabinets concealed
inside themselves everything from pedestrian flour and sugar to
a spice rack for which a medieval baron would have traded his
firstborn son. A formica-topped counter offered a place to roll
dough if Juliet was in a bready mood, and the stainless-steel
sink was indeed stainless. The garbage disposal was polite and
docile, and the dishwasher performed its duties with diligence,
efficiency, and a minimum of noise.
One fine afternoon, Juliet had opened the refrigerator and was
peering through its well-lit recesses, trying to figure out what
to make for dinner, when the refrigerator closed its door gently
but firmly and addressed her. "Darling, this can't go on any
longer. I wish it could be otherwise, but it's out of my
control. It just can't work, do you see?"
"No, I don't see," Juliet said quite honestly, venturing a
surreptitous tug on the refrigerator's handle.
"He's right," the stove sighed. "I feel like such a fool -- and
a cad, too, for leading you on like this. We've had good times
together, I admit that, but a lasting relationship is just out
of the question."
"But you're all paid for," Juliet said.
"Damn it!" the dishwasher said. "Pardon my language. But do you
have to make this so hard? It pains me to spell it out, but I
have to: we're from Macy's. You're from Queens. It can't last,
do you realize that?"
"We just weren't made for each other," the stove added. "The
fault's not yours or ours-- it's fate. Someone like you, who's
never opened a cookbook in her life, and things like us, the
very best in food-preparation technology, were never meant to
stay together."
"Are you saying," Juliet said, "I'm not good enough for you?"
"Please don't say that," the refrigerator urged, sidling towards
the door. "We'll always think fondly of you. But we can't live
this lie any longer. It's tearing our souls out."
"Appliances don't have souls!" Juliet all-but-screeched.
"Goodbye, Juliet."
She argued. She ordered. She blocked the doorway with her body.
She wept. She pleaded. She promised. She raged. Nothing worked.
They all left her: the dishwasher, the stove (knocking a rather
large hole in the wall as it lumbered out), the garbage
disposal, the eggbeater and its clattering family of
attachments, the knives and forks and spoons, the ladles and
measuring cups, whisks and graters, the cheese axe and the
fondue forks, the cookbooks. The little metal rings she put
around fried eggs so they turned out as neat circles. When
Cedric came home, he found her sitting on the floor under the
windows, her face in her hands and the kitchen empty of
everything save dust.
"Hello, love. What's this hole in the wall doing here?" he
asked.
"Oh, Cedric!" Springing to her feet, Juliet crossed the kitchen
to bury her damp face in his pinstriped wool shoulder.
"Everything's gone away. The horrid things said I wasn't good
enough for them, and just up and left."
"There, there, honey." Cedric patted her back. "We'll be eating
out tonight, then?"
"Cedric!" Juliet wailed. "Are you listening? My-- our appliances
have left. How will I be able to cook?"
"Ah, uhm," Cedric said. "It's not the end of the world, dear.
Who knows? It might be for the best."
"Whatever can you mean?" Juliet demanded, detaching herself from
him. "Cooking is my life, my art."
"Well, dear," Cedric glanced at the floor, "I'm sure you can
find some other hobby. Sewing, perhaps? Charity?"
"You don't care about this, do you?"
"To be honest, dear, you were never much of a cook. Oh, I'm not
saying you weren't... innovative, but-- well, now I suppose I
can hire someone to do the work."
"Cedric!" Juliet said in horror. "Not you, too. Oh, how can you
be so insensitive?"
"Remember when you thought the pepper pot soup wasn't spicy
enough? Or that sticky cake thing that fell apart? Don't be
hysterical, dear. I'm sure you'll get over it."
Juliet stalked to the living room, Cedric trailing. She seized
her handbag from where it lay. "Now, love," Cedric said
anxiously, "you're not going to do anything irrational, are
you?"
"Stand aside, Cedric. If you're not man enough to do this, I am.
I'm going to get my appliances back." And with that, she was
gone.
Outside the townhouse, Juliet hailed a taxi and stewed in the
backseat all the way out to Macy's. She undertipped the driver
and barely noticed his sulfurous snarl as he took off in a cloud
of noxious fumes. Resolutely, she straightened her skirt, looped
her handbag's strap over her shoulder, checked her makeup, and
sallied forth into the world's largest department store.
It had been a while since she'd been there. A directory told her
that the housewares department was two floors up. She rode the
escalator, surrounded by the omnipresent rustle of brown paper
shopping bags bearing the store's logo. "We're from Macy's,
you're from Queens"... bah! As if Macy's didn't have a branch in
Queens. A large one, too.
At the top, she stepped off the escalator and immediately
spotted her refrigerator. It spotted her, too, and slowly turned
away, presenting the mesh of black heating coils on its back to
her. Juliet's mouth tightened. She strode over, heels clicking
emphatically on the linoleum, and slapped a possessive hand on
the broad white side. It tried to inch away, but Juliet was
implacable, maintaining the contact while she sought a
floorwalker.
"Yes, ma'am?" one said, materializing at her elbow.
"I want this refrigerator," she said.
"Certainly, ma'am. What plan do you intend to pay on?"
"I'll pay in full now. Just give me this refrigerator."
The floorwalker's professional smile congealed. "You mean this
particular refrigerator? It's just a display model, ma'am. Rest
assured the one you'll get will be of the same high quality."
"I said I want this refrigerator."
The floorwalker made a little gesture of incomprehension. "I
don't understand, ma'am. What's so special about this one?"
"None of your business," Juliet said curtly. "It's a personal
matter."
The smile had rotted away and disappeared entirely. "Yes, ma'am,
I see. I'll have to talk with the manager first."
The manager was duly summoned. "Look, lady, we'd have to pack
this refrigerator up and set up a new display model. It'd be
easier for both of us if you'd just take another fridge."
"Can't you understand?" Juliet demanded. "I have to show him he
can't just run out on me like that. I haven't even had a chance
to find the others yet. Time's slipping by."
"I'm sorry. I can't do it. It's just not worth the trouble." The
manager spread his hands in resignation.
"I see. You're on his side." Juliet drew herself up to her full
height. "You don't think I deserve it either. Well, I'll be
back, and I'll show you!" As she spoke the last words, she
suddenly realized that she was shouting, and moreover that
almost everybody on the floor was staring at her. She jerked on
her handbag strap, gave the refrigerator a vicious little kick,
turned, and marched towards the escalator, cheeks flaming but
shoulders remaining straight. She thought she heard the
refrigerator snicker behind her.
Jean-Louis' was a restaurant that prided itself on its quality.
Everyone from Robert, the maitre chef d'cuisine, to the lowliest
waiter, knew their jobs and did them well. When Juliet presented
herself at the back door and requested -- well, demanded would
be a better word -- to be taught to cook, she was nearly turned
away. The off-duty pastry chef she spoke to finally brought her
in more for the fun of seeing Robert blow up at her as anything
else.
He wasn't disappointed. "This is not a school," Robert growled.
"Go to one of the universities, or watch the shows on
television."
"I told her that," the pastry chef put in.
"But I want to learn in person," Juliet said. "I've watched the
shows, I've read the books, I've worked my hardest, and, well,
my appliances say I don't deserve them."
"So? In America, few people do," Robert said.
"I'll do anything," Juliet said. "Just teach me. Let me see what
real cooking is."
Before you could say, "That was a mistake", Juliet's coat was
off, her handbag was on the floor, her sleeves were rolled up,
and her hands were filled with dirty dishes. Over the course of
the next two hours, she became very familiar with one aspect of
food: its remains. The cold sliminess of used salad dressing,
the bits and tufts of meat that weren't worth the effort needed
to extract them from the bone, the little garnishes no one ever
ate (Jean-Louis' did not recycle them, and shame on you for
thinking that), lobster shells, dregs of every beverage
conceivable, hard greasy gobbets of old sauce. She also became
intimately familiar with heat and dampness, china and
silverware, and what happened when you dropped a wine glass on a
linoleum floor (it wasn't pretty, and neither was the head
busboy when he saw it.) She developed a deep and abiding hatred
of the slob customers who inflicted this never-ending tide of
filth on her, and when her two hours were up she was too tired
to even think of finding Robert. Instead, she dragged herself
outside, the air feeling positively Antarctic after the tumid
heat of the kitchen, and rode back to the townhouse.
Needless to say, Cedric was not pleased. "Really, love," he
declared, "I can't see why you would do something like that."
Juliet was too tired to argue, only making a limp gesture in
reply, but he pressed on. "What's the point? That's what I must
know. Certainly they have no shortage of people to do that kind
of work for them, do they, dear?"
"I have to do it if I want to learn," Juliet said.
"You're not thinking of going back, are you?"
"Yes, I am."
Cedric threw up his hands. "I could forbid you, but I hope
you'll see how foolish you're being for yourself."
"Whatever. Good night, Cedric." Juliet picked herself up and
headed for bed.
Two.
------
She was back at Jean-Louis' the next day, to the surprise of
most and the disgust of the pastry chef, who had a sizable bet
with the head busboy that she wouldn't return. She tried to
speak with Robert, but he brushed her aside, snapping orders as
the kitchen girded itself to face another day of customers.
Silently, she took up her place in the corner of the kitchen
where the dishwasher was stored and waited.
It was very much like the previous day had been. The food may
have been slightly different, but garbage was garbage. Juliet
stacked, soaped, rinsed, worked the dishwasher, until finally
the head busboy wandered by and told her to take a break.
She tried to stay out of the way and watched Robert as he moved
around the kitchen, trying to understand him. He did very little
of the actual cooking, but nevertheless every dish that passed
through the kitchen went through his hands, in one way or
another. He turned up his nose at a souffle, straightened a
garnish, screamed at a vegetable peeler, poked at a slab of
uncooked meat, peered into a steaming vat in which a chicken
simmered. Juliet yearned to go to him, ask him why the souffle
was bad, what his opinion of the chicken was, but was already
well-versed enough in the ways of the kitchen to know what the
result would be. When her break was over, she returned to the
dishes, feeling extremely unenlightened.
Since Robert was inaccessible, Juliet turned to the other
kitchen workers, the trainee chefs and specialists. They were
surprised, then flattered, by her attention, and gladly showed
her what they did. And that, for a few days, was satisfying. She
felt at last as if she was learning something, taking the first
steps towards being worthy of her appliances. But gradually she
became aware that something was bothering her.
"Why so much garnish?" she asked a trainee chef who was putting
the final touches on a serving of pate of wild game.
"Because without it, it'd just look like a couple slices of
meatloaf."
"Yes, but you're practically putting a forest around it. Why not
just take one big fluffy lettuce leaf and put the slices on it?"
The trainee chef glanced at the plate. "I dunno. This is how
Robert wants it."
"Can I taste the soup?" she asked another, who grudgingly
scooped out a spoonful. She drank the hot liquid carefully,
frowning. "How much salt is in there?"
"Do you think it's too salty?"
"Yes."
The trainee looked uncertainly at the pot. "I'll ask Robert what
he thinks."
"What are you doing?" she asked the head saucier as he
disconsolately poured a bowl of brown sauce down the sink. He
grimaced.
"Stupid of me. I put in too much butter and flour. It's too
thick."
Juliet dipped a finger into the stream, tasted. "It seems all
right. Can't you add more water or something?"
"It's not worth the effort -- and Robert wouldn't accept it."
"That's right," Robert said. Juliet and the saucier started, the
last of the brown sauce splashing onto the counter. "And you,"
he said to Juliet, "what are you asking those questions for?"
"I'm here to learn."
"Then why are you telling my chefs how to cook?" Robert all but
roared.
"They're only my opinions."
"There is no such thing as 'just an opinion' where food is
concerned." Robert was grimly serious. "Next you'll be giving
orders. You're more trouble than you're worth. Get out."
The sheer injustice left Juliet all but breathless. "But..." she
said weakly. Robert, fists on hips, seemed to be readying
himself to destroy any protest she could make. "But you said
you'd let me learn from you."
"And I would have-- if you'd shown any willingness to learn. I'm
not a cooking teacher. I don't have time for your ideas."
"And quite right he was," Cedric said later. "May I assume,
dear, that you're giving up this foolish..." he waved a hand
aimlessly in the air "... jaunt?"
"I picked the wrong place, that's all," Juliet said defensively.
Cedric chuckled. "To be sure. To be sure. But you haven't
answered my question, love. What do you have there?"
Juliet shifted the newspaper away too late. Cedric frowned
slowly. "Reading the want ads, dear? I hope you're not going to
do anything rash. Aren't you being the tiniest bit obsessive
about this?"
"Drop dead, Cedric." Juliet couldn't quite believe she'd said
that, and from the expression on Cedric's face he couldn't
either.
"What're the books for?" The manager of New America jerked his
chin at the books tucked under Juliet's arms, Craig Claiborne on
the left, James Beard on the right.
"Oh, just in case," Juliet said, trying to sound nonchalant as
possible.
The manager looked her over. "Won't hurt to give you a try." His
voice was pure Brooklyn, not surprising considering that the
restaurant was in Brooklyn Heights. "Get back there and make
yourself useful."
Compared to Jean-Louis', the kitchen of New America was less
everything -- less crowded, less busy, less state-of-the-art,
less clean. The cylindrical dishwasher was the same, though, and
Juliet thought that it mumbled a greeting to her around a
mouthful of porcelain as she passed. She couldn't be sure,
though.
The head cook introduced himself as David and made the expected
joke about Romeo upon hearing her name. "Hang up your coat, and
-- " he peered around the kitchen -- "get together some clam
sauce to start with. Can you handle that?" Juliet nodded. "Good.
Give it to Perry when you're finished."
When David had turned his back, Juliet set down her books,
quick- flipping the Beard's index. Clam sauce, page 44. Here it
was. She scuttled around the kitchen, collecting ingredients.
"1/3 cup olive oil." No problem. "3 garlic cloves, peeled and
finely chopped." Within minutes, she had reduced the cloves to a
heap of smelly, infinitesmal bits. "2 7-ounce cans minced
clams." Easily found. "1/2 cup chopped parsley, preferably
Italian." The cook she asked silently handed her a small
canister of powdered parsley. She weighed it in her hand
uncertainly, then gave it back, continuing her search of the
kitchen until she had found fresh parsley. She wondered if it
was Italian, but decided it would be better not to ask.
There; what next? Saute the garlic with part of the oil. That
was easy, but she turned to the "Sauteing" section of the
Claiborne to make sure, darting nervous eyes from the book to
the simmering mixture, alert for the slightest change in the
oil's color as she shook the pan gently.
There -- it was turning yellow. Dump in the rest of the oil
quickly, add the liquid from the clams, then the parsley. Then,
finally, when the mixture was boiling, add the clams themselves,
let it heat up. A minute later, she was bearing the hissing pot
of sauce to the man who had been pointed out as Perry.
Perry dipped a spoon into the sauce, blew on it, and tasted.
"All right. Do it quicker next time. Keep an eye on these chops
for me -- they're almost done." Juliet waited until his back was
turned before dashing cross-kitchen, nearly upsetting a
dish-laden busboy, scooping up her two saviors -- Craig and
James -- from the counter and bearing them back to the stove.
What kind of chops were they -- pork or lamb? They looked
porkish. One of them was surrounded by an ugly ring of bubbling
brown grease. Was it supposed to be that way?
Quick, the index: "Pork chops, 409; braised, with sauerkraut,
162- 3; browned, and lentil casserole, 295; Nicoise, 196;
sauteed, 174." Hopelessly, Juliet turned to page 162, then
noticed that the grease- ringed chop had begun to smoke.
Dropping the book, she seized the nearest implement -- a
long-handled fork -- and impaled the chop, lifting it free.
"You left it on too long," Perry said from behind her. Juliet
was startled; the fork jerked in her hand, and the chop slid off
the tines to land with a wet slap on the skillet. Spatters of
grease went flying, one alighting on the back of her hand. Perry
reached past her, switching off the stove.
"You were just supposed to let them brown," he continued.
Juliet, dismayed, back of her hand pressed to her mouth, said
nothing. "Don't worry about it," he said in an
I'm-trying-to-be-reassuring voice.
Juliet slunk away, eventually finding work putting dabs of
whipped cream on top of bowls of strawberries and cream. She
decided not to consult the books about that, but she made sure
that she knew to the last gram how large a dollop she was
supposed to use. Juliet had a new religion, and its name was
precision.
She persevered. She bounced around the kitchen like a pinball,
never settling at any place or any job for long. She ignored
Cedric's poorly-concealed distaste when she returned home in the
evenings, tired and smelling of a thousand different dishes. The
Claiborne and Beard grew well-thumbed and acquired a panoply of
miscellaneous stains.
And then one day, when she came in, David drew her aside. "I'd
like to talk with you," he said.
Juliet's heart froze; his demeanor was sober and restrained.
Bad- news time.
"It's about your books." He paused. "Personally, I don't mind,
but some of our cooks have said that they're not sure they can
trust you. It's the way you seem to have to look everything up,
you see."
"I just want to make sure," Juliet said, anguished.
"Yes, I understand that. But this is a business-- we can't hold
things up every time you need to make sure. You've been here
long enough. I think you can handle yourself. Now," David said,
"starting tomorrow, please don't bring those books."
And there it was. A direct, no-getting-around-it order. Juliet
retreated to the kitchen, but found no solace there. Everyone
seemed to have become an enemy: who had complained to David? She
found herself watching the other cooks out of the corners of her
eyes, trying to judge them and winding up with nothing but a
futile parade of wild suspicions. When she got home that night,
she was in even more of a frazzle than usual, and slept poorly.
In the morning, it required an almost physical effort to leave
the books behind. It didn't help that Cedric, glancing up from
his Journal, said almost cheerily, "You forgot your books,
honey" -- could he be in on it? She had to rush out, pretending
that she hadn't heard him.
When she got to New America, David greeted her politely, making
no reference to the books. However, this small act of mercy
failed to lift Juliet's spirits. She went into the kitchen,
avoiding gazes, and proceeded to make mistakes.
Not just any mistakes, too. She got even the most basic things
wrong. She beat a bowl of egg whites so long that they lost
their necessary buoyancy and turned into a thick grayish sludge.
She burned butter while trying to clarify it, the brown stink
rising from the pan like an accusation. She forgot to add salt
to a pot of boiling pasta, and it came out tasting like glue.
She had, she realized, learned something from the books -- but
not cooking. She had only learned recipes.
After every mistake, Juliet had to pretend that she didn't hear
the chorus of mutters that broke out behind her. She was getting
a lot of practice doing that. Any minute now, David would come
to her, tell her that she was fired.
He did come to her, when she was eating lunch (prepared by
someone who could cook better than she could) glumly in a corner
of the kitchen. "I hear you're having a rough day," he said.
Juliet nodded.
"Just relax," David offered. "Stick to the easy stuff."
Juliet smiled gratefully. What she had been doing was the easy
stuff, but sympathy, however unhelpful, was always welcome. When
she finished eating, she rose with an effort of will and, going
forth into the kitchen, continued her slow-motion disaster.
When she got home that night, she would have made a beeline for
the bedroom (and the books), but Cedric intercepted her. "My
gosh, honey, you look beat," he commented in a friendly manner.
"Hard day at work?"
Juliet, not wanting to give anything away, bit her lip and
nodded, trying to circle around him.
"Well," Cedric said, moving deftly to cut her off, suddenly
grave, "you see, I've been thinking, dear. I've been thinking,"
he moved again, placing himself between her and the bedroom
door, "that I've let this go on entirely too long. You're
humiliating yourself, you're embarrassing me."
"What do you have to be embarrassed about?" Juliet asked,
feinting to the left. Cedric remained undeceived.
"My wife's working in a restaurant. In Brooklyn, too. The word
gets around, you know, dear."
Juliet feigned a sudden loss of interest in the bedroom, pacing
aimlessly away. "But I'm learning, Cedric."
Cedric continued to block the door. "Can't you just take a
class, love? How can you be learning anything when you're like
this every night?"
Juliet rounded on her heel, glaring at him. "Out of my way,
Cedric."
He stood firm. "I'm telling you this, dear. Don't go there
tomorrow."
Juliet marched up to him, jabbing a shoulder into his chest.
Startled, Cedric stepped aside, and Juliet, barely slowing,
entered the bedroom with a feeling of grim, but unfortunately
evanescent, triumph. She slept little that night, spending most
of it attempting to memorize the books. Ingredients and
techniques ran through her mind like sand through a sieve, and
when she woke in the morning, with no memory of having gone to
sleep, she retained none of them.
Cedric wasn't around. A note on the dining-room table, propped
against the salt-and-pepper shakers, read "Remember what I
said." Juliet picked it up, hunted around the townhouse until
she found a pen, and wrote "GOODBYE CEDRIC" in slashing, spiky
letters along the bottom before flinging the paper back onto the
table. As the subway to work crossed under the East River, the
enormity of what she'd done suddenly caught up with her, and she
began to quiver, feeling suddenly very alone in the midst of the
sardinish mass of humanity.
By the time she reached the doors of New America, she was
composed of three parts misery to two parts terror. David let
her by without a word. One more day like yesterday and he'd have
to let her go. And then... her imagination faltered at this
point. The best she could come up with was starting over. She
tried not to think about how.
"Hey!" One of the cooks tapped her on the shoulder. "Start this
up for me, will you? I have something to take care of." And he
was gone before she could protest. Juliet was left alone with
two steaks. It would have to be steak, of course. Not something
that was, well, expendable.
She fought back panic and looked at the steaks. Strip sirloin.
Covered with a fine dust of crushed peppercorns. There were a
soft bottle of cooking oil and a stick of butter nearby. All
right, Juliet told herself firmly. What does this suggest?
Um... frying? she replied tentatively.
Don't be silly, she snapped. You don't fry steaks. No, he must
mean to saute them.
Yes, of course! She applauded her own brilliance, then suddenly
sobered. But for how long?
I'll just start and hope he comes back before I totally wreck
them, she decided, scooping up the platter the steaks lay on,
taking the oil and butter in her other hand and going in search
of a frying pan. She found one with dismaying swiftness, and was
easily able to get a burner at one of the stoves. Now, she said
tentatively, I'll heat up the oil. She dribbled oil into the pan
with a sparing hand, terrified of pouring too much in. When the
bottom of the pan was covered with a thin film she stopped. And
now for the meat--
What about the butter? she reminded herself.
Why, I'll... She stalled. I'll... just throw some in. And she
suited action to thought.
You're backsliding, she reproved herself as she twisted the
burner control to high heat-- the better to get this over with
quickly. The butter softened, liquefied, began to sizzle.
Suddenly panicking at the thought of burning it, Juliet yanked
the dial to a lower setting. She put the steaks in reluctantly,
as if they were corpses being lowered into a grave: obviously,
indisputably lost.
When they did not immediately blacken and char, some of Juliet's
nerve returned. Still, she glanced around anxiously for the man
who had dumped this duty on her, shifting the pan back and forth
almost absently so the steaks didn't stick.
Nobody seemed to take any notice of her and her dilemma. Well,
Juliet told herself with a touch of vanity, she was handling
this well so far--
Don't you think you'd better turn them over? she asked. With a
tiny gasp, she grabbed a nearby fork, nearly dropping the pan,
and flipped the steaks. It was rote after that: wait, flip,
wait, flip. But after three flips panic began to slowly
insinuate itself into her mind again. Are they done yet? How am
I supposed to know? They looked nice and brown, but inside, who
knew? Visions of a customer biting into his steak, finding it
raw in the middle.
Salvation came in the form of David, passing by. "Oh," Juliet
said with forced casualness, lifting the pan clear of the heat
and displaying it to him, "who are these for?"
"That's the steak au poivre, isn't it?"
"Uh, yes. I think."
David borrowed the fork and gave the meat a few inscrutable
pokes. "Good. Give 'em to Leo."
Juliet marched across the kitchen, handed the pan to Leo
wordlessly, and collapsed against a handy wall, sweat draining
down her face. Any moment now, she was certain, Leo would come
storming up to her demanding to know what horrors she had
inflicted on those fine pieces of meat.
But he didn't. And a few minutes later, she saw them -- it was
hard to tell precisely that they were hers, but somehow she knew
-- leaving the kitchen atop plates held by a jacketed waiter.
Out to be eaten. By customers. Complete strangers. She suddenly
felt dizzy.
"Hey!" Perry was waving at her from across the kitchen. "I need
some clam sauce. Can you do it?"
For a moment, Juliet was ready to retort, Go away, can't you see
I'm about to faint? But she took a deep breath. Pushed herself
away from the wall. Set her chin.
"Of course I can."
"Don't look now," the refrigerator muttered to the oven, "but
it's her again. Why must she torture herself like this?"
"I heard that," Juliet said cheerfully. People were staring at
her, the way she was festooned with shopping bags and pulling a
crammed- to-bursting two-wheeled aluminum cart behind her.
"Can I do something for you, madam?" the floorwalker asked.
"You certainly can." Juliet smiled. "Plug in that refrigerator
and that electric range over there. And where can I get some
water?"
The man backed away as Juliet advanced. "And let's not have any
talk about calling the manager," she continued. "Just be a good
fellow and do it." The floorwalker turned and fled.
"Juliet," the refrigerator sighed, heavy emphasis on the last
syllable, "what do you hope to accomplish? It's over. Can't you
see that?"
"Shut up," she said politely, hefting a bag, "and open up. This
stuff is thawing."
The floorwalker had decided that she must be some sort of
terrorist. Who knew what all those bags contained. He complied
with her demands with great deference, and then scampered off to
call security as soon as her back was turned. When the Macy's
troopers finally arrived, shouldering their way through the
growing crowd, they found her standing before the range, slowly
stirring a tall silver pot of soup. Juliet glanced up as they
came close.
"Want some?" she asked.
Shoppers detoured to other sections of Housewares, "borrowing"
silverware and plates. More public-minded spirits also brought
back utensils Juliet requested, and several formed a sort of
bucket brigade between Housewares and the bathrooms in return
for first crack at the food, passing water one way and steaming
dishes the other. The manager, finally summoned, took a look at
the scene, immediately foresaw an upswing in sales, and loudly
ordered his staff to aid and abet Juliet. Anyway, it would have
been hard to get security to throw her out when two of their
guards were helping carry water. The mingled odors spread slowly
but irresistibly through the world's largest department store,
bringing shoppers from as far away as two floors down to
investigate.
And in the center of it all, Juliet cooked. Broiled lamb chops
and baked fish fillets. Carrots Vichy and a Western omelet.
Steak au poivre, spaghetti (properly salted) with clam sauce.
Chicken roasted and chicken broiled with teriyaki sauce. A
chocolate souffle and lemon meringue pie. The staff ran out
several times to restock the refrigerator, returning panting
under loads of damp paper bags. But eventually all the food was
cooked, served, and eaten. Juliet set down a wooden spoon,
flexed stiff fingers, and picked up her handbag.
The refrigerator cleared its throat.
"Yes?" Juliet asked.
"Oh," it said brokenly, "I've been such a fool. Oh, Juliet, can
you ever forgive me-- us?"
"Oh, sure," she said easily.
"You're too good. You're an angel." As she began to walk towards
the escalator, a note of hope mixed with fear entered its voice.
"Are you going to be taking us home now?"
Juliet shook her head. "I don't think so. I don't need you any
more." At the top of the escalator, she turned one last time to
look at Housewares, and she smiled a heartbreaker's smile.
Christopher Shea (74007.1375@compuserve.com)
----------------------------------------------
Christopher Shea was found under a rock in 1970 and adopted by
Japanese Illuminati. He attended college at Gallaudet University
where he majored in grade report forgery and game mastering with
a minor in torturing anyone who dared call him "Chris."
Parisian Pursuit by Carlo N. Samson
======================================
Kay adjusted her red-rimmed glasses and squinted through the
viewfinder of the camcorder. She focused in on a patch of red
flowers, then panned up and to the left. The image of a young
woman dressed in a brightly patterned skirt and a denim jacket
appeared. Tawny-auburn curls streamed out from under the
wide-brimmed black fedora she wore on her head. Kay gave the
thumbs-up sign and hit the record button. Her older sister
Marlaina began speaking.
"Welcome to the continuing adventures of Marlaina and Kay in
Europe. Mom and Dad, can you guess where we are now?" She paused
for a moment. "Don't know? Well, here's a clue." Kay pressed the
wide-angle button and the brown metal framework of the Eiffel
Tower came into view over Marlaina's shoulder. "Put that
encyclopedia away, Dad -- we're in Paris!" She flung her arms
wide. "Yes, Paris. The City of Lights; the City of Love;
the...the, uh, the capital of France!" She smiled weakly and
shrugged. "Anyway, we'll be staying here for a couple of days,
then heading south toward Monaco. But right now we're going up
to the top of La Tour Eiffel. See you there!"
Kay stopped recording and lowered the camcorder. "Nicely done,
Lainie," she said. "Now how far up do you want to go? I heard
it's cheaper to just go to the first stage."
"Come on now, sis, live a little!" Marlaina replied. "If we go
up at all, it may as well be to the top." She patted her purse.
"I think we'll be able to afford it." Kay shrugged and put the
camcorder back into its carrying case. They joined the line for
the elevators.
Twenty minutes later they were on the observation deck at the
top of the Tower, admiring the magnificent view of the city
along with the other tourists. After taking pictures and video
in each direction, the girls caught the next elevator back down.
"That was really something," Marlaina said as they walked back
out into the square beneath the Tower. "Let's go back up -- this
time taking the stairs."
Kay looked at her incredulously. "You've got to be kidding!
That's- -one thousand, six hundred fifty-two steps."
Marlaina laughed and lightly punched her sister in the arm.
"Don't have a conniption, sis." She tousled Kay's ponytail.
"Anyway, what do we do next: visit the Louvre? The Arc de
Triomphe? Notre Dame Cathedral? We're also right next to the
bateaux mouche dock - - does a river cruise sound good to you?"
"Why don't we rest for a bit, then decide," Kay replied.
Marlaina agreed, and the two of them headed over to the nearest
bench. Kay started to sit, but Marlaina stopped her. "What is
it?" asked Kay. Marlaina indicated the next bench over; it was
occupied by three disheveled-looking old men. From the way they
were laughing and slapping each other on the back, it was
obvious they had been drinking. Marlaina took hold of her sister
and started to lead her away, but one of the old men spotted
them and shuffled over. "S'il vous plait," he said, holding out
his cap.
Marlaina shook her head and strode away, her sister in tow. The
old man stared after them for a few moments, muttered something
under his breath and rejoined his companions.
Marlaina warily glanced back. Another man had gotten up and was
working his way down the line of tourists that stood waiting for
elevator tickets. "You'd think that in a city like this...."
"We might have given him a little something," said Kay.
"It's best not to mess with those types," Marlaina replied.
They sat themselves down on a bench at the opposite side of the
square, where the crowd of people milling about obscured their
view of the old men. Marlaina took off her purse and set it down
beside her. Kay unshouldered the camcorder bag and stowed it
under the bench.
"You thirsty?" asked Kay. "I saw a Contact Orange stand a little
way down the street. I'll get us some, if you want."
"Sounds great." Marlaina fished a few coins out of her purse and
handed it to her sister.
"Be right back," Kay called over her shoulder as she departed.
Marlaina settled back and relaxed. She looked up at the green
netting that was strung between the pillars of the Tower and
wondered if it was meant to catch anyone unfortunate enough to
be blown over the railing. Turning her attention to the people
that filled the square, she tried to pick out the foreign
tourists from the Parisians. She discovered it was easier to
spot the Americans; many of them dressed and acted like they
were at Disneyland or something.
A voice over to the left of her said, "Excuse me, is anyone
sitting here?" Marlaina turned her head and saw a young man
dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt standing there. He had an
expensive-looking camera slung over his shoulder.
"Not at all -- be my guest," Marlaina said, gesturing to the
space beside her. He smiled gratefully and sat down. She watched
as he unloaded the camera and put in a new roll of film.
"Nice camera," she said, leaning over to look at it.
"Thanks," he replied, looking up at her. "Nice hat."
Marlaina giggled. "Let me take a wild guess -- you're not from
around here, are you?"
"No, but neither are you, I take it," he replied, grinning.
"Is this your first time in Paris?"
Marlaina nodded. "Just got in today."
"Traveling by yourself?"
"With my sister. You won't believe how long we saved up for this
trip! Almost two years of part-time jobs. But it's been really
worth it. We spent about a week in England, we're going to stay
another week in France, then we're going to decide whether to
hit Spain or Italy. She wants to see Barcelona, but I've always
been curious about the Leaning Tower. You ever been to Pisa?"
He admitted he hadn't, and told her that this was his first
vacation since he took a job at an insurance firm a year and a
half ago. Marlaina told him that she had just graduated from
college and had decided to travel before looking for a job.
"How about your sister?" he asked.
"She's a sophomore at Ohio University. What state are you from?"
He didn't answer, as he seemed to be looking past her. Marlaina
followed his gaze and saw two shabbily-dressed children, a boy
and a girl, standing before her. The boy wore an old blue jacket
and clutched a small bouquet of plastic-wrapped roses; the girl,
almost certainly his sister, had on a faded lavender dress under
her fake-animal-fur coat.
Wordlessly, the boy thrust the roses at Marlaina, obviously
intending for her to buy one. She shook her head and turned back
to the young man.
"I'll bet you must have met a lot of interesting people in
England," he said. Before Marlaina could reply, a pair of
casually- dressed young women came up to them. One of them, a
petite redhead, said, "There you are! We thought you'd been
kidnapped or something. Come on, the bus is leaving."
"Nice meeting you," the young man said to Marlaina as he got up.
He waved as he left with the girls.
"Yeah," Marlaina sighed, "a lot of interesting people." She sat
back and saw that the boy and girl hadn't left. "I don't want
any," she said. "Non."
The boy made no move to leave. He offered the roses to her
again. "Look, I told you I don't want any," she said, louder
this time. "Allez- vous-en!"
The girl took the hint and scurried off. Her brother followed a
moment later, a sad look on his face.
A few minutes later Kay returned, carrying two styrofoam cups of
freshly-squeezed orange juice. "What kept you?" said Marlaina.
"There was a line," Kay replied, handing her a cup.
After they had finished the drinks, they decided to take the
river cruise since it was closest. As they stood to leave, Kay
frowned and said, "Where's your purse, Lainie?"
"Right here." Marlaina looked down at the bench and saw with a
shock that the purse was gone. "Oh geez, no!" She frantically
searched the area around the bench, with no result. "It was
right next to me, I swear! I never left it."
"Gods, Lainie -- did anyone come up to you, like one of those
old men?"
"No," said Marlaina. She then told her about the young man and
the two children. "The guy couldn't have taken it--besides, why
would he? It had to have been those kids." She snapped her
fingers. "Of course! That was the whole scam. The boy distracted
me with the flowers while the girl grabbed my purse. Nice and
simple."
Kay threw up her hands. "How could you be so careless, Lainie!
There goes our passports, our hotel key, your camera, your
credit card, our traveler's checks--what the hell are we going
to do now?"
"Hey, come on sis, don't have a conniption," Marlaina said,
trying to sound reassuring. "You still have the two hundred
dollars in your money belt, right? And there's the five hundred
back at the hotel. We can still get along."
"But without our passports, it'll be a major hassle getting into
Spain, not to mention back home. You should have let me keep the
stuff in my purse."
"You didn't bring your purse. You wanted to carry the camcorder.
You said, 'There's no reason for both of us to bring a purse --
just put everything into yours.' "
"In retrospect, I should have known better," Kay said, folding
her arms.
"Don't get snippy with me," Marlaina said. "Let's just calm down
and think."
They eventually decided to call the credit card company and get
a refund on the travelers checks, then contact the American
consulate and ask what to do about the stolen passports. Kay
retrieved the camcorder bag, then the sisters headed off to the
nearest public phones.
"Got any coins?" Marlaina asked, picking up the receiver. Kay
searched her pockets and came up with a 100-franc note. "Just
this. I used all the coins you gave me for the juice."
"We'll have to break it." Marlaina glanced around and spotted a
McDonald's across the street. "How about we get something to eat
first?" she suggested. Kay agreed.
They entered the restaurant and placed their orders.
"Everything's so expensive in Paris," Kay said as they headed
into the dining room and sat down at a corner table. "Almost
nine francs for a cheeseburger. That's--" she did a rapid mental
calculation " -- about two dollars American! Unbelievable."
Marlaina had her cheeseburger halfway to her mouth. She froze
and let it drop to the table.
"Shocking, isn't it?" Kay said.
"That's them!" Marlaina exclaimed. "Those kids who stole my
purse - - there they are!" Kay turned and saw the boy and girl
coming down the stairs from the upper floor of the restaurant.
The boy held out a single plastic-wrapped rose to the couple at
the nearest table.
"Hey you kids! Come here!" Marlaina said loudly. The children
spun around. A look of surprise and fear crossed their faces;
the boy flung down the rose and bolted out the door, his sister
not a moment behind.
"Blast!" Marlaina spat. She dashed out after them.
"Wait! What about..." Kay made a sound of frustration and swept
the cheeseburgers into the camcorder bag. She got up and took
off after her sister.
"Come back here, you little spuds!" Marlaina shouted as she
pursued the children down the crowded sidewalk. Several people
shot her annoyed looks as she shoved past them in her haste. She
heard Kay's voice behind her and slowed momentarily to allow her
to catch up.
The children ran like frightened rabbits, Marlaina a wolf on
their trail. They came to a metro entrance and flew down the
stairs. "Ha! We've got them now!" Marlaina said.
The sisters reached the bottom and saw the kids huddled near the
entrance gates, which consisted of a series of vertical metal
panels which could only be pushed open after inserting a metro
ticket into the validation machine. Marlaina slowly approached
the children.
"We don't want to hurt you," she said sternly. "All we want is
our stuff back." They remained silent. "I don't think they
understand," said Kay. "Let me try."
"No -- I've got it," Marlaina said. "Je vais appeler un agent,"
she said to the children. At this, their eyes went wide. The boy
said something to his sister, who seemed to agree.
At that moment, a man came down the stairs and walked up to an
entrance gate. He inserted a metro ticket into a slot on the
front side of the validation machine. The ticket popped out of a
slot at the top; the man reclaimed it and pushed open the
panels. Before Marlaina could react, the boy had swung around
and shot through the panels a split second before they closed.
He collided with the man on the other side, but quickly
recovered and ran. The girl started to imitate her brother's
maneuver as another person came down and went through the gates.
Marlaina lunged and managed to grab the back of the girl's coat;
the child violently jerked forward and a fistful of fur tore
loose, allowing her to slip free.
"Why did you have to threaten them with the police?" Kay said.
"They looked like they were going to give up."
"Well they're getting away now!" Marlaina snapped. She grabbed
her sister by the shoulders. "Where are the rest of the train
tickets!"
Kay reached into her shirt pocket and pulled out a bunch of
small yellow slips. Marlaina snatched one and jammed it into the
slot of the nearest validation machine.
A moment later, she burst out onto the train platform. Kay
emerged a few seconds later. Even though the train hadn't yet
arrived, the people on the platform were standing around
expectantly. Marlaina quickly scanned the crowd and saw the
children at the far end of the platform. She started towards
them just as the train roared into the tunnel.
"Stop those kids!" Marlaina shouted, but her words were drowned
out by the sound of the train as it slowly ground to a halt. The
doors opened, and the two children leaped inside.
"Wait up!" called Kay. Marlaina spun around and took hold of her
sister. "They're in this car. Come on!" She pushed Kay ahead of
her into the train.
A warning tone sounded, and seconds later the doors closed. The
train lurched forward and gathered speed. Marlaina looked around
and spotted the children near the doors at the opposite end of
the car. "End of the line," she murmured. Once again she started
towards them. The children eyed her fearfully. The boy then
turned to a large business- suited woman next to him and spoke
to her. Something he said made the woman glance over at
Marlaina.
"I think you should back off for now," said Kay. "You'd only
make a scene."
"You're right," Marlaina said. "They'd scream bloody murder and
get the fat lady to sit on us. Just wait 'till they get off."
The train rumbled on through the tunnel. Marlaina watched the
children with hawklike intensity. She nearly had them, and
didn't intend to let them escape.
"How old do you think they are?" Kay asked, clutching a
stanchion wearily.
"What?" Marlaina said, not looking at her.
"Those kids. They can't be more than seven or eight." Kay rubbed
her chin thoughtfully. "It's so sad that they have to make a
living on the street. They ought to be in school, having fun."
"Yeah. Stealing from tourists is a lot of fun."
"They wouldn't if they didn't have to," Kay replied. The kids
had now taken seats next to the large woman. The boy chatted
amiably with her, while his sister kept an eye trained on
Marlaina.
"Maybe you should have bought a flower from him," said Kay.
"I told you. It was just a diversion."
"I just think that maybe if you had..." At this Marlaina
frowned. "Like, I'm not responsible for the economic condition
of this country," she said. Kay looked away and shrugged,
leaving the thought unfinished.
For nearly half an hour the train rumbled on, and still the kids
made no attempt to leave. Marlaina glanced up at the metro
system map and saw that they were a little over half way to the
end of the line. The large woman had left, and two
leather-jacketed youths in ripped jeans had taken the seats next
to the kids. Eventually, Marlaina's patience broke. She made her
way over to where the kids sat.
"Excusez-moi," she said to the youth in the aisle seat nearest
her. "I have to speak to the children -- les enfants, s'il vous
plait." The youth looked up at her. He was blonde and a tiny
gold cross dangled from his ear. The boy quickly whispered
something to him. The blonde youth smiled and said something to
his companion across from him. They laughed. He looked up at
Marlaina again and put his hand on her arm. "Bonjour, ma petit,"
he grinned.
Marlaina withdrew her arm and went back to join her sister.
"The City of Love, eh Lainie?" Kay said, smiling.
"Shut up, sis," said Marlaina.
Station signs flashed by the window: St. Jacques; Glaciere;
Corvisart. Finally, at Place d'Italie, the children made their
move.
As the train screeched to a stop, the children scrambled over
the laps of the leather-jackets and dashed for the doors.
Marlaina's heart leaped. "After them!" she said, pushing Kay
down the aisle. "Make sure they don't double back on us."
The doors whooshed open, and Marlaina sprang to the platform.
She shoved her way through the crowd, and caught a fleeting
glimpse of the children as they darted into a side corridor
marked CORRESPONDANCE. "I'm over here, Kay! Come on!" she yelled
over her shoulder as she began the chase anew.
The corridor led out onto another platform, somewhat less
crowded than the one they had just left. A train was pulling up
as Marlaina and Kay rounded the corner. The kids were once again
heading to the car at the far end of the tunnel. Marlaina yelled
for them to stop, and in her haste collided with a man bearing
an armful of packages. Marlaina quickly apologized as she
scooped up a few boxes and tossed them at the man. Kay bent down
to collect the others, but Marlaina yanked her up and pulled her
along.
The warning tone sounded. "Mairie d'Ivry," came a voice over the
loudspeaker. Marlaina saw the kids hop aboard the train. Her
first impulse was to board that same car, but the warning had
already sounded and there wasn't enough time. She had no choice
but to get aboard the car behind them.
Kay spun around to prevent the doors from closing on the
camcorder bag. "Aren't you getting tired of this?" she panted.
"I'm not going to let those little spuds get away with our
stuff," Marlaina said determinedly.
"But they're in the car ahead of us," Kay said. "They'll have a
head start when they get off."
"So hit the ground running," Marlaina replied.
At the next stop, the two sisters were the first ones off the
train. They dashed along the platform to the car ahead of them,
dodging the exiting passengers. Inexplicably, the children were
not among them. A coldness formed in the pit of Marlaina's
stomach at the thought that the kids might have eluded her, but
she saw them sitting in the middle of the car, chatting with an
elderly gentleman.
An idea struck her. She instructed Kay to board the car through
the doors near the rear end, while she herself entered through
the doors near the front. As the train staggered into motion
Marlaina allowed herself to smile. The children were trapped
between herself and her sister; there was no escaping this time.
The girl suddenly ceased speaking and tugged at her brother's
sleeve. She whispered a few urgent words and pointed to either
end of the car. The boy's eyes went wide, but he continued
talking as if nothing was wrong.
At Maison Blanche, the young man whom Marlaina met at the Eiffel
Tower boarded the train. He was accompanied by the two girls who
had called him away.
"Hey, it's the girl with hat! Small world, isn't it?" he said
when he saw Marlaina. "I didn't catch your name back there."
Marlaina frowned slightly. He and the girls were blocking her
view of the children; she told him her name anyway. He
introduced himself as Ryan, and his two companions as Heather
and Val. Marlaina nodded to them and tried discreetly to shift
her position to get a better view of the kids.
"Guess what happened," Ryan said. "Heather's dad forgot the
spare battery for his video camera!" He explained that they had
an hour and a half for lunch before the next part of the tour,
and that it would be just enough time for them to return to the
hotel to get it and get back to the meeting place on time.
Marlaina nodded, only half-listening.
"Is your hotel out this way?" Ryan asked. Marlaina shook her
head. "You're a bit far from all the sights then," he continued.
"This is the 13th arrondissement -- no man's land, if you
believe the guidebook. For some reason the tour operators booked
our hotel in this district -- the rates must be lower here or
something."
"I take it you're all on the same tour?" Marlaina said, craning
her neck slightly.
"It's the wildest thing," said Heather, the petite redhead. "All
throughout Brussels we didn't notice each other, even though we
were at the same hotel. Then yesterday, our first day here in
Paris, we were on the bus tour and we stopped for pictures at"
-- she looked at Ryan -- "what was that place with the fountains
and the obelisk thing?"
"The Place de la Concorde," he supplied.
"That's it," Heather said. "Anyway, I had gotten away from my
parents for a moment, and Val had gotten away from her dad, and
we kind of bumped into each other as we were taking pictures of
the statues..." She continued on to tell how Ryan then came up
to them and asked if it was their first day in Paris. From that
point on they'd decided to see the sights together.
"Have you been to the Louvre yet?" asked Val in an Australian-
accented voice. "We saw the actual Mona Lisa. It was major
brilliant!"
"Notre Dame was totally awesome," added Heather. "I mean, it's
absolutely humungous! You've got to see it."
"What wing of the Louvre was the Mona Lisa in?" asked Marlaina.
Val looked uncertain. "Somewhere past the statue of the headless
winged woman, I think," she said.
"Exactly how big was the cathedral?" Marlaina asked Heather.
"That is, how many people could it accomodate?"
Heather's brow furrowed in thought. "The guide told us, but I
can't remember. A lot, though."
The train suddenly lurched into a hard left turn, throwing
everyone to the right. "Almost to the next stop," Ryan said.
Marlaina stood on tiptoe and signalled to Kay as the train began
slowing down.
"Say, why don't you have a drink with us tonight, after the
tour's over?" said Ryan. "There's this brasserie on Montparnasse
that we've heard is nice."
"Uh, yeah. Right," said Marlaina. "Could you excuse me?"
At that moment the train came to a stop. The children leaped up
and dashed straight for Marlaina's end of the car.
"Was that a yes?" asked Ryan. The doors opened and the children
bolted out. Marlaina shoved him aside and raced after them.
"I think that's a no, mate," Val said as the doors closed again.
Marlaina and Kay pursued the children through the exit gates and
up the steps into the afternoon sunlight. They were now on a
busy street at the outskirts of the city. The buildings here
were mainly residential and of the same general appearance. Kay
grimaced and looked away as she brushed past an advertising
stand papered over with sex-magazine covers.
They crossed the Peripherique overpass and came to an
intersection. At this point the girl continued straight on ahead
while the boy detoured right. "Get the girl!" Marlaina called to
Kay. "Meet you back here later." They split up.
The sidewalks seemed almost deserted. Cars whizzed by on the
road. Marlaina was several seconds behind the boy. "Arretez!"
she shouted. To her surprise, the boy came to a stop. He paused
on the edge of the curb. Marlaina thought he was at last giving
himself up, but to her horror he darted out into the street.
Marlaina stopped in her tracks. "You crazy-ass kid! Get back
here!" she screamed. The boy threaded his way through the stream
of oncoming cars and miraculously made it to a traffic island.
Marlaina breathed a sigh of relief. "Stay right there!" she
ordered him. She waited impatiently for a break in the traffic
and when it came, hurried across. The boy saw her coming and
took off.
Marlaina made it to the traffic island. A car passed, then the
street was momentarily empty. She was almost halfway across when
her foot came down into a pothole. She lost her balance and
slammed forward into the asphalt. "Ow!" she yelped.
As she pushed herself to her knees she heard the approaching
growl of an engine. Looking up, she saw a taxi rocketing
straight for her! Fear shot through her body; she quickly sprang
to her feet and scrambled out of the way. The taxi sped on past,
its horn blaring.
Marlaina yelled a curse at the back of the departing vehicle.
She picked up her fallen hat and hurried to the other side of
the street. As she placed the fedora back on her head she saw
the boy standing motionless only a few feet away.
Marlaina froze, wondering why the boy hadn't taken the
opportunity to flee. He simply stared at her, his large brown
eyes unblinking. Marlaina slowly lowered her arms to her sides,
knowing that any sudden movement could frighten him off.
"I'm not going to harm you," she said in a soft voice. The boy
just stared at her, uncomprehending. Marlaina wished she could
speak the language; even though she had nearly memorized the
French phrasebook she'd bought before the trip, there was
nothing in it that was applicable to this situation.
"Comment vous appelez-vous?" she tried. No response. Okay, so he
didn't want to tell her his name. "Venez ici, s'il vous plait. I
just want my stuff back." She slowly reached out her hand. The
boy looked at it for a long time. Finally, he took a tentative
step forward. Then another. He put his hand to his jacket
pocket.
At that moment, the undulating wail of a police siren shattered
the momentary peace. The boy's head jerked at the sound and he
jumped back as if bitten. "Wait!" Marlaina cried, lunging
forward to grasp him. The boy spun away and sped off down a side
street.
The wail reached a crescendo as the police car roared by.
Marlaina sprinted after the child. She wished she hadn't tried
to grab him.
The boy made it to the end of the street and cut left. Marlaina
rounded the corner a few seconds later, but it was too late. The
intersection was empty -- the boy was gone.
Marlaina sighed and slumped against the wall. She pushed herself
away and started walking back the way she had come. For the
first time she took notice of her surroundings. Cars were parked
on either side of the narrow street, leaving barely enough space
for a single car to pass down the middle. The apartment
buildings looked old. Marlaina spotted a small brown pile on the
pavement and looked away. What had Ryan's guidebook called this
part of the city? No man's land. Aptly put.
Someone called her name. She looked up and saw Kay hurrying
toward her. "Don't tell me you lost him, Lainie," she said.
Marlaina shrugged. "And I suppose the girl gave you the slip,
too," she said.
"Au contraire, ma soeur," said Kay. "I found out where they
live. Come on."
They walked out onto the main street. Kay said, "When we were at
the top of the Eiffel Tower, I noticed that most of the
buildings on each block didn't take up the entire space -- they
were built around the edges, leaving a sort of courtyard in the
center."
"That's nice," said Marlaina. "Get to the point."
"I am," Kay said. "Anyway, I was chasing the girl down the
street when she suddenly turned off into an archway that led
into this block's courtyard. I followed the girl in, but she was
gone.
So I looked behind me and saw that this side of the block was
all apartments. I went back and found the door to the apartments
-- I didn't notice that I'd run past it."
"So did you go in?"
"Well...no. I didn't want to go knocking around blindly. But get
this: right across from the apartments is a hotel. I went around
to it and got on one of the upper floors. From the hallway
windows you can get a perfect view of those same apartments."
"Uh-huh. So?"
"You'll see when we get there."
A few minutes later they were in the lobby of the hotel; they
took the elevator to the fourth floor. Kay led Marlaina down the
hallway to the window at the end. Marlaina turned the handle and
pushed it open.
She looked out over the courtyard and saw the apartments Kay
described. They had a dark and run-down appearance. Directly
below her, a man rummaged through a garbage dumpster. Off to the
right was a ruined shack.
No man's land, she thought.
"I was thinking that I might see the girl in one of the
windows," Kay said. "And my hypothesis was correct. I saw her in
that window there -- second floor, third one from the right."
Marlaina looked to the one she indicated. The lights were on in
the room, and there were no curtains. As they stood there
watching, a woman dressed in a maid's uniform came into view.
She held out her arms, and the boy Marlaina had been chasing ran
to her. The woman knelt and embraced him.
"That's where they live, all right," Marlaina said, turning from
the window. "Good thinking, Kay."
"You're not going to go over there, are you?" Kay asked. "I
mean, what are you going to say -- 'excuse me, but your kids are
thieves?' "
"We came all this way," said Marlaina. "You yourself said how
important it was to get our passports back. That's what I'm
going to do." She started off down the hall.
"Lainie," Kay called softly. Marlaina turned. "Take it easy on
them. They're just kids."
"Wait for me here," Marlaina said.
Thanks for stopping by. But next time, don't bring the life-sized Abe
Vigoda butter sculpture.
The courtyard was silent as Marlaina made her way through the
archway. Her bootsteps echoed across the rough cobblestone. She
saw her sister waving from the hotel window; after a moment it
came to her that Kay was pointing out the door to the
apartments. After a few moments of exploration Marlaina found it
and made her way up a dimly lit flight of stairs. Strange odors
wafted down; the stairs creaked with nearly every step she took.
She reached the second floor and went to the third door from the
far end of the hallway. She raised her hand to knock, but then
lowered it. What was she going to say, anyway? More importantly,
would she be able to say it? Her phrasebook French probably
wouldn't be sufficient.
The impulse to just leave and forget the whole thing suddenly
gripped her. She fought it down. If you go at all, it may as
well be all the way, she thought. Steeling herself, she knocked
on the door.
A dark-haired man in his early thirties answered. "Bonjour,
monsieur," Marlaina said quickly. "I, uh--"
"What can I help you with, miss?" he said in accented English.
"Oh -- uh, sorry to disturb you, sir," said Marlaina, relieved
that he spoke her language. "I have to tell you something --
about your kids."
The man nodded slowly. "Come in, mademoiselle," he said, holding
the door open for her.
Marlaina entered the apartment. It was sparsely furnished: a
couch here, a couple of chairs there, a televison flickering in
the corner. The wallpaper was faded and coming off in places.
She turned to the man and introduced herself. He told her his
name was Lucien. At that moment the woman in the maid's outfit
entered the room. Upon seeing Marlaina, she put her hand to her
mouth and ducked back into the room she had come from. "My
sister Jeanne," said Lucien.
Marlaina gave a little cough. "I don't know how to tell you
this," she began, "but --"
Lucien held up a hand. "I know why are you are here." He turned
and called out, "Jean-Michel! Isabella!"
There was the soft sound of a woman's voice. A few long minutes
later, the two children crept into the room. They stood along
the wall farthest from Marlaina.
Lucien motioned for her to sit on the couch. He sat next to her.
"My sister's children did not mean to steal from you," he said.
"They are not thieves." Turning his attention to the children he
said, "Explain to her."
By turns, Jean-Michel and Isabella spoke in French. Lucien
translated.
"They say they are sorry. Jean-Michel only wanted to sell you a
flower. Isabella says you spoke rudely to them when you did not
want to buy the flower. That made her angry, and so she stole
your purse. They were sorry afterwards, but too afraid to go
back and return it. They decided to first sell the rest of the
flowers, then come home and ask my advice. When they saw you in
the restaurant you looked very angry, so they ran. They were
going to return your purse to you in the metro, but you had said
you were going to call the police."
Marlaina winced.
Lucien continued. "Jean-Michel says that when you were almost
run over in the street, he felt very bad. He was about to give
your purse back but then he heard the police siren and again
became afraid. Isabella says that they never stole anything
before, and that they will give you all the money they have if
you will not call the police."
Marlaina looked at the children huddled in the corner, and her
heart melted. Jean-Michel stood very still; Isabella looked as
if she was about to cry. Marlaina felt a wetness brimming in her
own eyes. She looked away and blinked.
"I didn't realize," she said. "I'm sorry if I frightened them. I
just...." She shrugged and looked down. A moment later she felt
a small touch on her shoulder. She raised her head and saw
Jean-Michel and Isabella standing before her. "Je regrette," the
boy said. His sister echoed his words. Jean-Michel brought
Marlaina's purse out from behind his back; his sister took hold
of the strap and together they offered it to her.
"Everything is there. Nothing has been taken," Lucien said
gravely.
Marlaina accepted the purse. She looked into Isabella's eyes.
"Merci," she said. "Sorry about your coat, though." She gently
patted the girl's shoulder. A faint smile touched the child's
lips.
"Merci," Marlaina said to Jean-Michel. She took hold of his
hand. "Ever think about becoming a track star?"
Lucien translated this; Jean-Michel looked back at Marlaina and
grinned. For some reason, Marlaina felt like putting her hat on
the boy's head.
"May I see you out?" Lucien said. "I have to go to work now."
"Of course." Marlaina stood up and drew the purse strap over her
shoulder. She took one final look at the kids before she and
Lucien left the apartment.
"I feel I must explain," said Lucien as they made their way down
the stairs. "After my brother-in-law died in an auto accident,
my sister had to move in with me. I was living by myself, and my
income as a tour guide was just enough. But it became
insufficient to support my sister and her children, so she works
now as a maid in the hotel. Isabella and Jean-Michel, they also
wanted to help. That is why they sell flowers."
They walked out into the courtyard. "You must meet a lot of
interesting people, being a tour guide and all," Marlaina said.
Lucien nodded. "Are you yourself here with a tour group?" he
asked.
"Me and my sister, we're just kind of traveling independently,"
Marlaina replied. "But we're planning to hit all the important
places."
Lucien chuckled slightly. "One thing I have noticed about many
people, Americans especially, is that they visit the Eiffel
Tower, they see the Mona Lisa, then they talk as if they have
seen everything there is to see in Paris." He led Marlaina out
onto the sidewalk. "If you really want to see the city, go where
the crowds do not. Then you will discover the things that cannot
be seen from the window of a tour bus."
Marlaina looked around at the gray buildings and dusty streets.
"They never mentioned this part of the city in the brochures,"
she said.
Lucien smiled. "Walk around a while, you may find it
interesting. For this, too, is Paris." He turned and strode
away.
"Did you get everything straightened out?" Kay asked, meeting
Marlaina at the hotel entrance. Marlaina nodded and showed her
the purse. "Everything's here. Let's go."
They started off down the street. "By the way," Kay said, "Who
were those people you were talking to on the train--that guy and
those girls?"
Marlaina shrugged. "Tourists," she said.
Carlo N. Samson (u25093@uicvm.uic.edu)
----------------------------------------
Carlo N. Samson is 23 years old, and recently graduated from
college with a B.S. in Computer Information Systems. He is
employed by a software development company, and has been writing
fantasy/adventure for the Dargon Project (in both FSFNet and
DargonZine) for the past five years. "Parisian Pursuit" is his
first non-fantasy short story. Carlo plans to visit Europe again
next year, and will hopefully come back with inspiration for
more stories about Marlaina & Kay.
The Piano Player by Will Hyde
================================
Jeremy Stoner was a honky-tonk piano player who had never really
had a significant moment in his life, until he went out in that
terrible storm and got hit by lightning.
It was a Miracle.
Jeremy Stoner was a honky-tonk piano player who got hit by
lightning, and survived it. But that wasn't the miracle. He woke
up with a dry feeling in his mouth and an electric tingling in
his hands -- and the most incredible talent in a century. His
music grew another dimension.
It became electrifyingly emotional, shockingly stirring. When he
played a sad song, everybody who could hear it would be touched
-- no, seized -- by a raging case of melancholia; strong men
grew tight of throat and wet of cheek, and the ladies wept like
newlyweds or new widows.
It was awesome, but it was nothing compared to what a happy tune
would do. When Jeremy played an upbeat tune, every ear it
touched would tingle with pleasure; joyous laughter would fill
the air, and everybody would love, love, everybody else.
Everybody got high when Jeremy played a happy tune --
enraptured, like the Pied Piper's mice.
But the action didn't really get good until Jeremy played his
own favorite number, The Stripper.
When Jeremy played that one, The Stripper, every woman who could
hear it was immediately overcome by the impulse to take off her
clothes, to do the dance of the seven veils and strip off every
stitch.
That was the Miracle.
And it only worked on the ladies.
Too bad there was so little market for such a talent in
Goldenrod, Idaho. Life was simple in Goldenrod; working the farm
in the daytime, a big meal at home, a little television to end
the evening ... and church on Sundays. There were only nine
hundred souls in Goldenrod, and every one of them went to the
same church.
Everybody lived the same life in Goldenrod, and everybody went
to church every Sunday, including Jeremy Stoner. In fact, it was
in church that Jeremy discovered his incredible new talent. He
found it in church, but he knew immediately, of course, where it
had come from; he knew he had been a little different ever since
his great electric moment in the storm.
The parishioners though, were sure they had experienced a
miracle when Jeremy played a sad song and everybody cried until
tears ran down their cheeks. He took them to the bottoms of
their emotions with a sad tune, and then he took them soaring to
the heights with a happy one.
Of course Jeremy didn't perform his favorite number in church.
He saved The Stripper for the amateur show tryouts in Pocatello.
He was planning to explode into Show Business, via the amateur
show route. This big event was held at the college in Pocatello;
the tryouts were on Friday afternoon and the show was on
Saturday night. The tryouts were shown by closed circuit
television to the college music class.
If Jeremy had known what he could do, he probably would not have
bothered with the amateur show. When Jeremy played The Stripper
for his tryout, every girl in the auditorium and eleven more in
the music class, stripped off every stitch -- and each one did
so with another version of the lewd dance. It was sensational.
The eleven in the music class got caught by the dean of girls
and were suspended from classes, pending an investigation... but
nobody snitched on the happenings in the auditorium.
And what's the first thing you would expect Jeremy Stoner to do,
after he discovered he had this incredible new talent?
You'll never guess.
The first thing Jeremy did was call the Sheriff.
Actually, the Sheriff himself never came anywhere near
Goldenrod; but the only police force Goldenrod had was the
Flower County Sheriff's Department. The Flower County Sheriff
had a deputy on duty in Goldenrod. Just one, and she was only on
duty during the daylight hours.
She. The incredible Charlene. Charlene Whatzername. Nobody
seemed to know her last name, she was just Charlene.
Deputy Charlene, the Electric Bitch! That's what they called
her.
Perfect.
She was a fooler. She could pass for a small-town college girl,
or the farmer's innocent daughter, if she wanted to; even in
uniform, she didn't appear very threatening. On Sundays, when
she shucked the uniform for Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes --
usually a simple skirt and sweater - - you would want to walk
along with her, protect her. That's what she looked like, but
she was something else. She was a dedicated student of some
obscure oriental philosophy. She had moves that could break
every bone or rupture every organ in your body. She could, and
she would, if you got out of line with her.
She was not all that big, and she looked like sugar and spice,
but the incredible Charlene was one bad broad! The same day
Jeremy Stoner ended up struck by lightning, Deputy Charlene
finished her day by kung fu-ing the shit out of three
lumberjacks and a mechanic, who'd had the drunken bad taste to
have said: "And what's a sweet little thing like you gonna do
about it...?" It seems they got a little rowdy at the Golden
Inn, and the bartender had to call the Sheriff. Two of them went
directly to jail, and the other two went to intensive care.
None of which had anything much to do with Jeremy Stoner's lust
for the Deputy. Jeremy had been in love with the incredible
Charlene for two years and thirteen days -- that's how long it
had been since she came to town and he saw her for the first
time.
The first time Jeremy Stoner saw the deputy, he was a goner. He
teetered on the brink for fifteen seconds, and then he fell --
Head- over-heels, ass-over-teakettle, libido-over-logic, and
I-don't-care-if- the-sun-don't-shine in love he fell --
Hopelessly, helplessly, irretrievably in love he fell. He
thought about her by day, and dreamed about her at night, but he
kept his thoughts and dreams to himself. He didn't have the
balls to approach her. He was afraid. He was afraid she would
shoot him down, because she could have anybody, and he was just
a honky-tonk piano player. With no balls.
She was indeed intimidating... but that was before. Now he had
the power of the piano, and it filled him with confidence.
"I've written a sonata for you, my lovely," he told her on the
telephone. "It's called Sonata to a Fair Maiden," he was sure
she would like that. "And I want to play it for you, one time,
before the world hears it." He presented himself as an admirer
who only wanted to admire her, a simple artist who had written a
masterpiece, not because of his talent, but because of his
inspiration. He was grateful to her, for her beauty, because it
had moved him to magnificence; it had moved him to writing
Sonata to a Fair Maiden.
His approach must have been a good one, because she went for it.
She said she had heard his music in church -- and had been moved
by it!
She said he could pick her up at sundown, when she got off duty;
she said he could take her to dinner, and then she would be
pleased (pleased!) to listen to his masterpiece. She said she
loved the piano, but she warned him that he would be in big
trouble if he got out of line.
Jeremy sat in his car for more than an hour, outside the
Sheriff's office, just waiting for the sun to go down. It seemed
it never would. It seemed to Jeremy that the Earth had stopped
its turning, just as the sun reached the tops of the mountains
west of Goldenrod. But of course it had not, the sun did go
down; and the moment it did, the incredible Charlene came out.
He met her on the sidewalk and introduced himself, like a
peasant to the Queen, although it was not necessary. She had a
file on every one of Goldenrod's citizens, and she knew who
everybody was. She was as efficient as she was beautiful. And
beautiful she was, even in her uniform. The hat with the badge
did nothing to dull the golden shine of her hair, which now she
wore loosely tied at the back of her neck. Her eyes were a
startling blue, they seemed larger than life, like a child's.
And her body...
God! her body took his breath away, he was breathing through his
mouth. Even in uniform, with the cartridge belt and gun, the
handcuffs riding behind, and that nasty black club they called a
baton, she didn't look like a cop. And anyway, she was off duty
now.
"Do you want to change first?" was the only thing he could think
of to say to her, and that was hard because his tongue was dry.
"No," she said. "I'm off-duty, but I am the only law in town."
And she didn't want to ride with him for the same reason. "I'll
follow you," she said.
She looked at him as if he were nuts, when he opened the door of
her prowl car for her; but then she smiled at him -- and he was
destroyed. He had difficulty just getting into his own car, and
when he did the seat was too far back. He had difficulty getting
the key into the ignition, and when he did the car wouldn't
start because it was in gear. But these things work out, and he
was determined.
It was barely a mile from the Sheriff's office to Flower
County's one truly elegant restaurant, the Golden Inn, but the
drive took a full three minutes. The speed limit on Goldenrod's
only paved street was twenty-five, and he was being followed by
the town's only police car. It was weird. he felt like the
spider leading the fly -- but this fly had a stinger!
Dinner at the Golden Inn was weird too. Jeremy had never been
treated like a Superstar before, but when he walked in with the
Electric Bitch, he was. The Headwaiter, usually as staid and
stiff as an undertaker, was as fawning and eager to please as a
puppy -- if he'd had a tail he would have wagged it. He led them
to the best table in the room; in the back, by the fireplace,
where he would have seated the President. He snatched up the
Reserved sign, and then waved the approaching waiters away -- he
meant to serve this table himself.
And serve them he did. He brought, with the compliments of the
house, a small bottle of white wine that was so good Jeremy
would have taken it home in a doggy bag, had the deputy not been
drinking... but she was, one glass. On the Headwaiter's
recommendation, they had the wild duck breasts and fresh
mountain trout.
In all, the dinner was a huge success. the meal was delightful,
and the firelight sparkling in those big blue eyes was
intoxicating. When she smiled at the Headwaiter and then thanked
him for the excellent service, it did more for him than did
Jeremy's twenty-dollar tip (of course, a part of that may have
been because the Headwaiter had been on duty the night the
deputy cut down the three lumberjacks and overhauled the
mechanic).
By the time dinner was finished, Jeremy was sure he had the
incredible Charlene's number. She wasn't so tough -- it was just
that she took herself and her job very seriously. By the time
dinner was over and they were chatting like old friends, a
stranger would have thought they were lovers, or newlyweds. And
Jeremy's confidence had returned.
"Now let's go to my place," he said, when she laid down her fork
for the last time. "I have a piano," he added, when she raised
her eyebrows at the suggestion.
Jeremy's apartment was back the way they had come; it was a mile
beyond the Sheriff's office, so the drive took nearly six
minutes. Six long minutes, but this time Jeremy felt more like
he was being escorted than followed by the prowl car. He felt
like she was with him now; he was sure he had reached her,
although he still had not touched her. He had been only the
perfect gentleman, so far.
So far. But now came the moment of truth.
"This is called Sonata to a Fair Maiden," he said, when he sat
down to his piano. She was settled on the couch with a cup of
coffee -- she wouldn't accept anything stronger than a cup of
coffee.
"It'll sound familiar at first, but that's just to warm up the
fingers," he said.
He played a few bars of a sad tune, to see if it would reach
her. It did. Her big eyes grew moist. He played a few bars of a
happy tune, to see if she would lighten up. She did. The big
blue eyes grew bright, and then she smiled at him.
That did it. He couldn't hold it back any longer -- he launched
into The Stripper, with all the feeling he could muster.
He didn't think it was going to work at first, but after a long
moment she got that distanced look in her eyes; and soon even
the incredible Electric Bitch began to dance to Jeremy Stoner's
music. She tossed the cap with the badge onto the couch, then
she took the little ribbon from her hair and let it fall. It
tumbled down over her shoulders in glorious golden waves.
She took off the cartridge belt as if it were the first of the
seven veils. She held it in both hands for a turn, then dropped
it on the floor; it hit the floor with the heavy thud of gun and
baton, the handcuffs rattled. She danced around it a couple of
times, as if it were a sombrero and this was a Mexican Hat
Dance. And then, slowly, carefully, starting at the top, one
button at a time, she opened her shirt.
She wore no bra.
She dropped the shirt on the floor with the other stuff, and
pirouetted around the growing pile like a ballerina, her hands
together above her head. Her breasts were not large, but they
were exquisite. They jiggled just a little with her movements,
but the jiggle was a firm one. Her nipples were erect.
Jeremy too, was erect, flushed with prickly heat; he was
sweating and his hands were moist, but he played on.
And the incredible Electric Bitch continued to dance.
She kicked off her shoes, both with a saucy little flip of her
dancing toes. First upon one foot and then on the other, she
went up onto her toes and into a delicate spin, a figure skater
now... and while she was turning, the foot that was not on the
floor worked the sock off the one that was.
Could the incredible Charlene dance? Did Moses throw holy writ
around? She went into a swinging motion with her hips and belly
that would have sent Salome home, and began toying with the
buttons of her pants.
And then...
...then the incredible Electric Bitch showed Jeremy Stoner
exactly how incredible she really was.
She took off the pants.
She wore no panties.
"Sweet Lord," he said. And then it hit him! He was seized. He
was frozen. He was aflame. He was entranced, enraptured. He was
enthralled. Out of focus, out of control. His ears rang. His
eyes watered, mouth did not.
His breathing stopped and his heartbeat paused; he quit playing
and dropped to his knees. He started toward her, walking on his
knees, unbuckling his belt. It wasn't a thought on his mind, it
was a vision -- and he meant to kiss it. You could have hit him
with a club, and he wouldn't have noticed.
Which she did. And he didn't.
The first time she hit him with her baton it was an off-balance
swing and a glancing blow, and he didn't even feel it.... But
the second time she hit him she rang his bell with a head shot.
His vision cleared and his hearing came back.
"You Bastard!" She screamed, pulling back to give him another
one. "You Bastard!" She screamed again. "I'll turn your lights
out!" She screamed. "I'll hand you your head!" Then she fired
again, a long looping swing that might have taken his head off.
It missed.
He scrambled back to the piano. He couldn't think of anything
else to do. The only thing he could think of was The Stripper.
It worked.
The distant look came back to her big eyes, and she returned to
her dance. Now the baton was a baton, and she was a majorette,
twirling it. Now it was a broomstick horse, and she rode upon
it.
Around and around the room she danced.
And Jeremy Stoner played on...
Will Hyde (why@kpc.com)
-------------------------
Will Hyde is an 'Editorial Consultant' for a Los Altos,
California publisher of manuals and 'how to' books. Writing as
Justin Case, a well known (in the SF Bay Area) professional
gambler, he is the author of 'The Lowball Book' (a guide to the
popular casino/cardroom poker game) and is currently working on
a similar book about "Texas Hold'em," recently legaliced in
California. Recently out of print, an ASCII version of 'The
Lowball Book' is available on request (by e-mail) from Will.
Peoplesurfing by Jason Snell
===============================
They were coming up Larry's street, shouting, moving closer to
his home with every passing second. The whole town was wearing
gray.
Larry was watering the little patch of lawn in front of his
little ground-level apartment. When he saw the town coming, he
dropped the hose.
Larry, they were screaming.
The water from the hose trickled under his feet. He wiggled his
toes in the wet grass.
Come on, Larry! they shouted.
He ran out into the street in his bare feet. He was wearing a
bright yellow shirt with floral patterns on it-- one of his
weekend shirts. He always wore one when he watered his lawn, or
mowed it, or sat in his rusty lawn chair on it. In the summer,
he'd come out there with a portable radio and listen to Mariners
games in the afternoons-- American League baseball, with
designated hitters and astroturf-- that was how he loved to
spend his summer afternoons.
Larry stood in the middle of his street, wearing his summer
shirt. The town came closer, all in gray. A cold wind began to
blow, and the wave of people overwhelmed him.
For a moment, he was even with them, one flowery shirt in a sea
of gray. Buzz. Then he was smothered by them.
I left the hose running, Larry thought.
The gray wave continued on.
Buzz. His buzzer was buzzing, of all things.
Larry slapped at it, as if it were a bee, and it stopped.
He had dreamed the dream again, the one where everyone wore gray
except for him. He didn't like the dream at all-- in fact, he
hated it. Especially the fact that he never remembered to turn
off the water hose.
Larry tried to put it out of his mind. It was time to get ready
to work. He couldn't worry about a stupid dream. He had to sell
computers.
They were gray computers, and they sat on gray tables in a gray
store. Almost all of the employees wore gray or black and white.
Larry wore gray, too. The same gray as the computers, the same
gray as the walls. The gray of his dream.
His first customer wore a wide plaid tie with a polyester suit.
His daughter wore thick black glasses, small pearl earrings, and
a bored look.
"Now, listen," the man was saying. "Marsha here's gonna need a
computer when she goes off to college in the fall. What kind
should we get?"
Great, Larry thought. He loved people who knew what they wanted.
"Well, you could start off by using the--"
"Daddy, I don't need a computer."
It was the lovely and perky Marsha. Evidently she hadn't told
dad about her college wish list.
"Of course you need a computer, pumpkin," he said. "You've got
to have a computer if you go to college!" He said it as if
college was a mystical place.
"Don't call me pumpkin."
Larry wanted to step back, flee from the father-daughter
confrontation that was ready to break out in the middle of the
store, and he was ashamed of it. None of the other guys ever did
things like that-- they just... well, charmed them.
"Let me show you, uh, our finest model," Larry said, attempting
to sound convincing, like Jack always did. "And it's moderately
priced at about 2,000 dollars, too!"
"Daddy, we could buy a used car for that much money," pumpkin
whined.
Shut up, kid, Larry thought. You're killing me.
"Why the hell would you need a car?" dear old daddy yelled.
"Where you're going, everyone lives at school. What you're gonna
need is some computerizin' power!" He said the last two words as
if he was referring to some sort of magical force.
Marsha kicked and screamed for a few more minutes, but dear old
dad had made up his mind. Larry had a sale, an honest to god
whole computer system sale. No more printer ribbons and dust
covers for this guy, no sir-- it was the big time. Larry got to
write four digits (plus cents) on the carbon-papered sales slip.
He made sure to press extra hard, so the numbers would be sure
to go through.
By the time Marsha and Plaid Dad had pulled out of the store
parking lot, all the other store employees were asking Larry
about his accomplishment.
"Which system did they buy, Larry?" his co-worker Jack asked
him.
"Oh... the BR-714," Larry said, trying to sound nonchalant about
selling the store's top-of-the-line system.
"Wow! Not bad, Larry my man. What disk drives did they get?"
Disk drives?
Larry swallowed.
"Disk drives?"
"Yeah," Jack said.
"Um -- the, uh, you know, the kind with the --" he made a
spinning motion with one finger. His hand was shaking.
"The hard drive? Hey, good job!" Jack said, and slapped Larry on
the back. "Still, if you had just sold 'em the computer without
any disk drive at all, I doubt that geek girl and her old man
would've known the difference."
Without any disk drive at all, their computer would be
completely useless.
Gulp.
"Something wrong, Larry?" asked Kim, another one of his
co-workers. They were never friends. Just co-workers. Larry
never seemed to find friends at work.
"Nothing," Larry said. "Nothing at all."
He frowned, moaned quietly to himself, and considered hiding
under the carpet. He decided that he'd be too noticable, and
made his way to the back of the store to cry.
By lunchtime, Larry felt a little better. It wasn't as if it was
his first mistake, and it wasn't as if the others had never
goofed before.
I didn't mean to do it was the phrase that always consoled him.
That, and lunch with the gang from work.
They weren't a family, the workers at Computer Central, but they
ate together and tried to be civil to one another. They ate
together not out of any close ties but because there was only
one restaurant in the shopping center and all of them were too
lazy to drive somewhere else for lunch. The only other place for
food anywhere nearby was Burger King, so the gang usually spent
their time eating at the Stage Wheel Restaurant.
Larry went because everyone else did. He ate a French Dip
sandwich, every day. It was the only thing on the menu that he
liked. He was a picky eater. He would eat a French Dip, and the
little crackers that come with the soup of the day.
And it came to pass that, in the middle of a fascinating
conversation on something that Larry knew nothing about, he
managed to spill all of the au jus into his lap.
The conversation stopped. They all looked at Larry.
"You okay, Larry?" Kim asked.
He tried to act as if it were nothing, speaking in the
nonchalant way that Jack always used.
"Oh, I'm fine. Not too much of a mess. Just a little wet."
Larry be nimble.
"Maybe you want to clean yourself up in the bathroom?"
It was a good idea. Larry nodded.
"Sure. I'll be back in a second." He was completely
businesslike, not embarrassed in the least.
Larry be quick.
He stood up, and au jus that had pooled in his lap trickled down
his legs. Some of it fell on the floor, making a sound quite
similar to what a body might sound like when it hit the ground
after falling from a skyscraper.
Little pieces of roast beef were stuck to the large wet area on
Larry's pants. The rest of the Lunch Bunch chuckled softly.
Larry fall face-down on the candlestick, giving himself second-
degree burns over a good percentage of his body.
He spent the rest of lunch hour standing in front of the hand
dryer in the bathroom, feeling hot air blow down his pants. It
felt kind of good, and almost offset his embarrassment and
shame.
That night, he was watering his lawn again, still wearing his
hawaiian shirt. Au jus flowed from out of the hose.
The whole town, wearing gray, ran up the street toward him. They
were yelling again.
Larry turned off the hose and began to walk into the street. As
the people approached, he noticed that au jus was still flowing
out of the hose.
The wave of people hit him, and became an actual wave, a roast
beef au jus wave. The au jus washed over him, drowning him,
filling his lungs. Little pieces of roast beef stuck in his
throat and attached themselves to his pants.
I didn't mean to do it, he thought to himself, and swallowed a
soggy soup cracker.
The wave kept rolling, leaving Larry behind, dying, in its wake.
When he woke up, the sheets were damp with sweat. Another bad
dream.
That morning at work was just like any other morning. Larry sold
printer ribbons to skinny adolescent boys with bowl haircuts and
glasses, boxes of disks to fat, pimply teenage girls, and dust
covers to blue-haired old ladies.
All morning, Jack kept trying to pick up on women customers.
Larry was tired of it.
Jack was slimier than Wayne Newton. He called all women "chicks"
when they weren't around, and called them "babes" when they
were. He wore a little skinny tie that looked more like a wide
shoelace, and kept his black hair slicked back -- very hip. He
was a combination of Pat Riley and a lizard.
Larry hadn't had a date in months. His outfit was plain, and his
tie was a little bit too wide. His hair was straight as a board,
and mousy brown in color.
Jack kept getting these women to go out with him. Almost every
babe he tried it on said yes to him.
"Hey," Jack said, "you're kind of pretty. Would you like to go
out to dinner with me tonight?"
They invariably said yes. Maybe it was the hair.
About eleven o'clock, Jack was over in the corner of the store,
trying to sell a printer to a woman who had already agreed to go
out with him. A blonde walked in. Not a blonde, the kind you see
in movies or on television. Just a blonde woman, sort of plain,
but not ugly by any means.
She wanted to see dust covers. Larry took her over to the dust
covers, and showed her a few different kinds.
"Hey," Larry said, "you're kind of pretty. Would you like to go
out to dinner with me tonight?"
She said no. But she did buy a lovely gray dust cover, to match
her computer.
It must be the hair, Larry thought.
"Nice try, stud," Jack said, and slapped him on the back. His
date with the expensive printer giggled a little.
Larry began to re-think the under-the-carpet idea.
When it came time for lunch, Larry darted out the door before
anyone could ask him where he was going. He knew where he wanted
to eat lunch, and it wasn't the Stage Wheel. He wanted to eat by
himself, away from Jack. And he didn't really feel like French
Dip au jus.
He went to Burger King. He ordered a chicken club sandwich,
something he had never had before, and a vanilla shake. He ate
the chicken, and liked it. And the vanilla was a refreshing
change of pace from the chocolate shake he normally had.
He ate his fast-food feast at an outside table, next to a little
children's playground that Burger King had set up. It had
statues of different little hamburger and french fry characters
set up in between plastic swings and slides. A few kids were
squealing as they slid down something that resembled a giant
pickle.
The food tasted better outside, Larry thought, with a warm
breeze blowing in the fresh air.
Much better than the stuffy air in the Stage Wheel.
He went back in and ordered a Hot Fudge Sundae. The hot fudge
tasted like plastic, and so did the ice cream. Larry loved it.
By the time he finished the sundae, lunch hour was over. He went
back to the store, and nobody asked where he had gone.
One of the first customers after lunch was a fairly attractive
woman. Jack saw her coming, and began to make his way from the
back of the store. Larry, who was standing at the front of the
store, got to her first.
"Hi there!" Larry said. "Welcome to Computer Central!"
"Thanks," the woman said.
Jack tapped Larry on the shoulder.
"Don't you think I should handle this one, stud?" Jack asked.
"That's all right, Jack. I've got it." He turned back to the
woman. "Can I help you with something?"
"I'm looking for a computer for under fifteen hundred dollars,"
she said.
Larry led her into the corner and showed her around the
different units. He tried to impress her with his sense of
humor, and he tried to be creative with his sales approach. She
laughed at all the right places, and then bought one of the
computers -- with a disk drive.
When Larry went up to the front of the store to get a sales
slip, he couldn't help smiling at Jack.
Made a sale, slimeball, Larry thought.
After the sales slip was signed and the woman had written her
check, Larry decided to try a different sales approach. Again,
he was going to avoid the Jack method.
"You know, miss, I think you're very attractive and intelligent,
and I'd like to take you out to dinner sometime," Larry said.
She looked up at him with her gorgeous blue eyes, and smiled.
YES!, he shouted in his mind. Take that, Jackie-boy!
"I'm sorry," she said. "That's very nice of you, but I've got a
boyfriend." She paused for a second.
Larry eyed the carpet anxiously, hoping to find a place to slide
under.
"Thanks for all your help. I appreciate it," she said.
After she had left with her new computer, Jack came up to him
and slapped him on the back.
"Nice try, stud," he said. "At least you sold something."
Larry smiled back at him, and said nothing.
That night, the gray people ran at him from down the street,
just as before. Still holding his water hose, he ran out into
the street.
They came closer, and he could hear them shouting Come on, Larry
at him.
He pointed his hose at the gray wave of people, and they all
began to melt away, becoming nothing but a gray wave of water.
Larry dropped the hose, turned around, and began whistling a
crazy tune. He started to skip, like a child might skip. He
skipped off into the distance. Behind him, the wave began to
break.
Larry woke up with a slight smile on his face. It had been a
good dream.
Jason Snell (jsnell@ucsd.edu)
-------------------------------
Jason Snell is a senior at the University of California, San
Diego, majoring in Communication and minoring in
Literature/Writing. He is the editor of this publication, the
editor in chief of the UCSD Guardian newspaper, and an intern at
KUSI-TV Channel 51 News in San Diego.
The Damnation of Richard Gillman by Greg Knauss
==================================================
When Richard Gillman was killed, he was driving north through
Los Angeles on the Santa Monica-bound 405.
Downtown Los Angeles is a confusing place, with twisting and
interlocking expressways, and a moment's hesitation will send
you sailing off in a direction you never intended, depositing
you in Pasadena or Torrance or Century City or just about
anyplace else.
This, of course, costs time. The delay, depending on a number of
factors, can be anywhere from five minutes to several hours.
Richard Gillman did not have that kind of time. He was on his
way to a meeting at Chiat/Day and could not afford to be late.
Los Angeles is a low-lying city, spread out instead of up.
Though there are several very tall buildings in the center of
downtown, including one comically-shaped like an empty roll of
paper towels, the city is mostly a huge expanse of structures
below four or five stories. Unlike San Francisco or New York,
the sky is clearly visible straight ahead, even out of a car
window.
This is what Richard Gillman was looking at when he missed his
exit. While Los Angeles is largely reputed to have unhealthful
air quality the majority of the year, there are certain times,
after a rare rainstorm for instance, where the sky is simply an
expanse of beautiful, majestic blue. The mountains to the east
are crystal clear, and in the winter their peaks are capped with
brilliant white snow. If Los Angeles had been built a little
further up the coast, instead of in a natural geographic basin
-- if Los Angeles could ever get a decent public transportation
system together -- if Los Angeles wasn't the destination of half
the people in the Midwest who leave their dying home towns, it
would be like this every day. Beautiful blue sky, shiny clean
buildings, the best city in the world.
It was at this point, and with these thoughts, that Richard
Gillman realized he was going to miss his exit. He was leaning
just slightly forward, staring just slightly up, looking at an
oblong white cloud, when a huge green rectangle blocked his
vision. It said:
> Sixth Street 1/4
"Damn!" Richard Gillman cursed. He craned his neck wildly to the
right, checking for a clear space next to him. If he missed this
exit, he would miss his meeting.
Cars were packed tightly, half a length apart, up and down the
405 as far as he could see.
Richard Gillman was still looking back, over his right shoulder,
twenty-five seconds later when his car plowed into the truck in
front of him. He was only going forty miles an hour when he hit
it and might not have been injured at all had he been wearing a
seat belt.
Seat belts are required by law in California, and you can get a
fifteen dollar ticket if you're caught not wearing one. But
Richard Gillman found that they left large diagonal wrinkles
across his chest and lap whenever he wore certain types of
fabric. There was nothing more embarrassing that arriving at a
lunch or a meeting with large diagonal wrinkles across your
chest and lap.
Anyway, Richard Gillman's car caught most of the force of the
collision. If you launch a small object, say a Fiat, into a
larger one, say a Vons produce eighteen-wheeler, the Fiat will
sustain most of the damage. In fact, what will happen is
something like this:
At the moment of contact, even before any metal bends, the
driver of the Fiat will be shot forward. Normally in this
situation, his seat belt will snap tight and hold him back
against his seat. If the driver is not wearing a seat belt --
and this happens to be the case in this particular instance --
he will continue forward as the front end of the Fiat crushes
against the back of the truck.
After about a tenth of a second, the unseat-belted driver's
chest will impact against the steering wheel and a short moment
later, his face will shatter the windshield.
As the front of the car continues to collapse, the engine block
will transmit most of the shock wave past itself further back
into the car. The driver, by now, has left a crude impression of
himself in the dashboard. His pelvis has likely bent the lower
part of the steering wheel forward, as his rib cage has done for
the upper part. Because of the small amount of leg room in a
Fiat, his knees have likely found the underside of the dash, and
bones in either is thigh or lower leg have shattered, shards
pushing their way through the skin.
As the initial push forward into the truck comes to an end, it
seems likely that both the hypothetical Fiat and the
hypothetical driver are both pretty much a total loss. But
Richard Gillman, however, lived not only through the initial
impact, but the reflection as well, as the Fiat pushed away from
the truck, glass and metal flying all about.
It seems that Richard Gillman was a particularly healthy
individual, and he managed to continue living for a good two or
three minutes after the crash, right up until the his Fiat's gas
tank caught fire.
The resulting explosion was so large that it caused a good dozen
periphery accidents, mostly shattering windows that faced the
collision, and closed the 405 for almost ten hours.
It took fire fighters and rescue personnel half that time just
to remove what they could identify as the remains of Richard
Gillman from the wreckage. As his rear license plate was thrown
clear during the explosion -- it was found later embedded in the
empty passenger seat of another man's car -- the identity of
Richard Gillman was quickly known, but withheld from the media
pending the notification of his family.
Saint Peter knew what to expect when people arrived; he'd been
at this job for quite a while.
Usually, Christians were the most passive. This, after all, was
what they had been told to expect. They would normally stagger
up to Peter, their faces blank and shiny with bliss, and mutter
their names. He would check his list, make a small mark, and
send them off, either up or down. Most people didn't like to get
the news that they were going down, but they never had much time
to complain before they were whisked off.
Sometimes, they were worried when they showed up. They would
drop to their knees and begin to cry and wail and screech for
atonement as soon as they appeared at the Gates. Usually Peter
would delicately pry their name out of them and then send them
off in the appropriate direction. They really didn't have all
that much to worry about. God had become pretty calm lately;
he'd mellowed as he'd gotten older. How could he blame humans
for being nasty when they were created in his own image?
Occasionally, however, Peter liked to have a little fun. The
crying petitioner would be kneeling at the base of his podium,
tears streaming down his face, and Peter would look at him
gravely. He would scan down the long pages of his book, stop
suddenly and then shake his head. Once in a while, he would gasp
in horrified astonishment -- the petitioner would collapse into
a heap, sobbing helplessly -- and he would have to bite his lip
to keep from laughing.
Yes, the Christians were the easiest, and easily the most fun.
Next came Jews. Jews took it pretty well, the concept of a
Christian God, usually with much more stoicism than Christians
themselves. Peter himself was a Jew and Judaism, really, just
amounted to Christianity one-point-oh. They didn't have much
trouble with the concept of a Christian Heaven, though as Peter
understood it, they tended to avoid Christ for their first few
decades here.
The non-Judeo-Christian religions produced people who varied in
degree. Buddhists were even more stoic than the Jews and simply
nodded as Peter let them pass or turned them down. Hindus didn't
like the idea of heavenly burger palaces, but seemed to cope
with the rest all right. Moslems often took it badly at first --
Peter smiled at the concept of a jihad against God -- but then
settled down. Monotheistic religions are all basically
compatible and anybody who showed up at the Gates believing in A
god could usually cope with believing in THE God.
But woe to the atheists. Atheists were the worst. Far and away
the worst.
When atheists arrived, they would blink a few times in confusion
and begin to jerk their head around, trying to take it all in.
Peter would beckon them over and the atheists would walk slowly
towards him, often stumbling over their own feet.
When they arrived at the podium, the fifty feet or so often
taking them upwards of five minutes to cross, their brow would
wrinkle and they would say something stupid like, "Saint Peter?"
Peter would smile softly and say, "Yes?"
Atheists couldn't stand that, all the calmness and regularity of
it. At that point they often exploded, backing away from the
podium, saying "Oh, no. Oh, no. I don't believe this."
Peter would say, "I know."
The atheists would usually ignore him and start to stamp around,
shouting curses, screaming "This is not happening! This is not
happening!" when it obviously was.
But, Peter thought, this guy here is different. Outright odd,
even. He had appeared in the flash of white light like normal,
but he hadn't reacted to what he saw at all. Not the the
towering clouds, the huge gate, nothing. He looked around for a
moment, blinking occasionally, and finally wandered over to
Peter.
"Hi," he said.
"Hello," Peter replied, slightly startled. This person had the
first neutral expression he had ever seen on anybody who
appeared at the Gates. "Your name?"
"Oh, Richard Gillman," said Richard.
Peter glanced down at the book on the podium in front of him,
half expecting to find some indication that this guy was a Zen
master. He started. No, not a Zen master. "Richard Gillman," the
line read. "Atheist." And like all the atheist listings, it had
a little down arrow after it.
An atheist. But an atheist who apparently didn't care that he
was in the after-life. Weird. The demons weren't going to like
this.
"Can you tell me where I am?" Richard asked. He glanced down at
his watch.
Peter looked up from his book in surprise. "You don't know where
you are?" he said.
"Well," Richard said. "I... Uh... Well, no, actually."
Peter rechecked the listing in his book. Occasionally he wished
that they had a little more to work with than just a petitioners
religion. The line still said, "atheist," and Peter narrowed his
eyes at Richard. The demons weren't going to like this at all.
"You're at the Gates of Heaven."
"Oh?" Richard asked. "I am?"
Peter nodded. "Yes."
"Oh." Richard glanced at his watch again.
Saint Peter knit his brow, pulling his eyebrows together. This
wasn't good. The guy was obviously an atheist -- the book said
so -- and so he was going to Hell. But Peter would be damned if
he could figure out how the demons were going to work with him.
He, apparently, didn't have much of a reaction to anything.
There was a sort of glaze over his eyes.
"You're going to Hell," Peter offered.
"I am?" Richard asked.
"Yes."
"Oh."
Peter shook his head in amazement. Absolutely no reaction at
all.
"That's bad, isn't it?"
"Yes," Peter said. "That's bad."
"OK," Richard said. "Just checking." He looked at his shoes for
a moment, then said, "I'm going to miss my meeting, aren't I?"
Peter muttered, "Geez," and Richard Gillman was dropped into
Hell.
Hell wasn't what Richard Gillman had expected at all. First off,
there were no flames anywhere. Growing up in the United States
in the late twentieth century, it would have been impossible for
him to NOT have an image of Hell, even if he didn't believe in
it, which he didn't. He had pictured it pretty much like he
thought everybody else pictured it: Like the inside of a cavern,
with flames leaping everywhere and large boiling craters of lava
and demons jumping out of hiding places and stabbing you with
pitchforks and stuff. Like Mr. Boffo.
That's what Hell was supposed to be like. Not at all like this.
He remembered reading, somewhere -- the reference understandably
slipped his mind at the moment -- that flames were a more recent
invention for Hell. That Hell had been originally been conceived
of as metaphysical suffering, not physical discomfort. Or
something like that. He didn't have a head for those kinds of
details. Plus he never really understood what the word
"metaphysical" meant. He had misused it in paper in a general
education philosophy class several years ago and had never
gotten around to looking it up.
Dante, he recalled, had pictured Hell with ice. On the lowest
plane of Hell, people were supposed to be frozen in a lake of
ice, trapped forever, with just the top half of their heads
peaking out. He had seen a picture of Dante's description at a
show that some girl had dragged him to. He had made a what he
thought was a clever remark and she had stopped returning his
calls.
But not in all his life -- he was college-educated after all, he
should have heard about things like this -- could he recall
having been told that Hell was a bus station.
Oh, he supposed, a bus station is probably its own little kind
of Hell -- he noticed with distaste a bum sleeping under
newspaper on a bench -- but this certainly isn't as bad as it
could be. Both fire and ice seemed as if they had the potential
to be a lot worse than this.
Hell was a particularly drab bus station. It was small, just an
annex, with five or six rows of wooden benches. A ticket window
was centered in one wall, half way between a cigarette machine
and a drinking fountain. The other wall listed schedules for
when buses would be departing. Or not departing, he noticed:
> Heaven Delayed
> Valhalla Delayed
> Satori Delayed
> The Happy Hunting Ground Delayed
The list continued along, hand-chalked for two decaying
blackboards, with the names of dozens of places followed by the
word "Delayed."
The wall that the benches faced was divided into two glass
doors, labeled "To Buses," and the opposite wall was blank, save
for smudged and aged institution-green paint.
Richard walked to the ticket window and tapped on the glass with
his finger. There was no one in the small office beyond, but
long rolls of tickets were laid out on a desk. He could see the
names on the wall also printed on the tickets.
"Hello?" he called.
There was no answer. The bum on the bench rustled slightly and a
page of a newspaper fell off of him.
Well, Richard thought, this is pretty dumb.
He turned from the window and walked quickly to the glass doors.
He peered out into what looked to be a starless night, but he
really couldn't see much beyond the concrete curb that jut out
from the bus station. Or Hell. Whichever.
He pushed on the door, but it didn't open.
"You can't get out that way," said the bum.
Richard spun to find the battered man now sitting up on the
bench. He had deeply lined, suntanned face, and a few days of
beard covered his chin and crawled up his cheeks. His clothes
were beaten and dirty, and a greasy tangle of hair fell into his
eyes and over his ears.
"What?" Richard said.
"You can't get out that way. Trust me."
"Who're you?"
The man rose and ambled towards Richard, a lose sole of his shoe
flopping as he walked. "I'm your demon."
"My demon?"
The man reached Richard and leaned towards him, poking his nose
forward. "Your demon. Sent here to torment you."
Richard grimaced and pulled back. "With your smell?"
The old man scowled. "Look, buddy. This isn't MY doing. I just
work here. You're the one who's damned."
"Oh." Richard wasn't quite sure how to deal with this.
"This is your Hell. Your own private Hell. I'm your own private
demon."
"Oh."
The demon nodded curtly. "OK."
Richard nodded back. "OK."
"OK."
"OK."
There was silence for a moment.
"Not what you imagined, is it?" asked the demon.
Richard scanned the bus station. "To be honest, no," he said. "I
hadn't really imagined anything."
The demon eyed him, pushing his chin against his chest and
looking up. "Uncomfortable yet?"
"Well, yeah," Richard said.
"Good," the demon replied. He spun on his heel and walked back
to the bench -- flop, flop, flop -- where he had been sleeping
before and lay down. He pulled the newspapers over him again
and, apparently, fell asleep.
Richard stood unevenly for a moment. He blinked.
"Hey."
The demon stirred, then rolled so his back was facing Richard.
"Hey," Richard said. He walked to the demon and tapped him on
the shoulder. "Hey, get up."
With a groan, the demon slowly sat up. He looked at Richard from
the bench and said, "What?"
"There's a few things I don't understand," Richard said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I think there must have been some kind of screw-up. I
don't quite get what's going on."
The demon looked surprised. He leaned back against the bench and
scratched his cheek. "You don't get Hell?"
"Well, yeah," Richard admitted sheepishly. "I don't see that
there's much to get."
The demon narrowed his eyes at Richard and ran his tongue over
his front teeth. "You're not writhing in metaphysical torment?"
the demon asked.
"Not as far as I can tell," Richard said. "I don't really know
what it is."
The demon slid to the side and pushed the scattered sheets of
newspaper to the floor. "Have a seat," he said. "This is going
to take a while."
Richard sat, slightly away from the demon.
The demon pushed his hair back and took a deep breath. "OK," he
said. "Now:
"Metaphysics deals with realms beyond the physical. It is
philosophy of the senses, and of interpretation of the senses.
It deals with things that are not here, but here. It deals with
the soul instead of the body, with the mind instead of the
brain. Metaphysics is everything that you cannot touch, but that
you can feel. Your 'sixth sense' is metaphysical in nature. Deja
vu is metaphysical in nature. God, Heaven, me, Hell and now you
are all metaphysical in nature. Metaphysics is everything that
not only is, but just is. Got it?"
"Oh," Richard said, slightly stunned. "I thought it had to do
with aerobics."
The demon continued, ignoring him. "To be in metaphysical
torment is to go beyond the simple pain of the body, to the pain
of the soul. If God were to try to make you atone for your sins
by, say, poking out your eyeballs" -- Richard made a face --
"there would be a limit to how much you would suffer. If he made
you atone by having worms eat through your flesh, there would be
a limit to how much you would suffer. If he--"
"All right! All right! No need for the theatrics."
The demon looked impatiently at Richard for a moment, then
continued. "Metaphysical torment is unending. It's like constant
pain that never moves you towards your death. It's like
everything that's ever made you feel bad, all remembered
simultaneously, all magnified by a thousand. It's--"
"You're doing it again."
"Stop interrupting me!" the demon shouted. "You're ruining the
effect!"
Richard looked down at his hands as they pulled at each other in
his lap. "Sorry," he said.
"It's a little late for that. Anyway. Are you in metaphysical
torment?"
Richard looked up at the demon and raised his eyebrows. He
pulled a corner of his mouth back and made a small clicking
noise by separating his lips. "Actually," he said, "I don't
think so."
The demon looked at him sternly. "Are you sure?"
Richard considered for a moment longer, then said, "Well, yeah."
The demon stood and paced across the room. "You're right," he
said. "Something is screwed up."
"Told you."
The demon began stride quickly back and forth in front of
Richard. Occasionally, he would pause, shake his head, and move
on. This guy, he thought, is an idiot. Why do I always get
assigned to the idiots? Why can't I ever get a pope? They've
done all the reading. Where should I start? First principles.
He stopped and looked down at Richard. "Here," he said. "Do you
find this place unpleasant at all?"
"Well, yeah," Richard said. "I mean, it's pretty filthy. I went
to Union Station once and it was much nicer than this. They have
that wonderful old archi--"
"No, no! You're missing the point. Think about it for a minute.
This is Hell."
Richard leaned back on the bench, and stuck his lower lip out
slightly. "So?"
The demon scowled. "You're here forever! For all eternity! With
absolutely no hope for escape. You simply can't get out."
The thought apparently hadn't occurred to Richard before. "Oh,"
he said.
The demon pointed to the chalkboards along the wall. "Those
buses will never come," he said. "And even if they did, you
can't get outside to meet them. And even if you could, you can't
get the tickets to get on them! Don't you see?"
Richard hesitate for a moment then said firmly, "Um."
"They offer futile hope, you geek! You're supposed to get down
here and have a tiny suspicion that if only you were smart
enough, if only you were clever enough, you could figure out how
to get out!" The demon whirled towards Richard. "But you can't!
There is no hope! You are trapped here forever! Don't you get
it?"
"Trapped?" Richard asked.
"Trapped," the demon said firmly.
"Forever?"
"Forever."
Richard considered the concept for a moment. "Oh," he said.
The demon grit his teeth and sat down heavily on the bench. He
sighed and looked at Richard.
"Look," he said, "do you even know why you're here?"
Richard thought hard for a moment. He shook his head. "I hadn't
really considered it."
"You hadn't considered why you were sent to Hell?"
"Well... No."
"OK," said the demon. "Maybe that's what we're missing."
"I committed adultery," Richard offered. "That was supposed to
be bad, wasn't it?"
The demon waved his hand dismissively. "God doesn't really care
about that much any more."
"Oh. Well. I, uh, I disrespected my elders."
The demon grimaced. "This is the nineties."
"I used the Lord's name in vain."
The demon only gave him a sour look.
"What then?"
"You don't know how the Ten Commandments start, do you?"
Richard shook his head.
"No."
"'I am the Lord, thy God,'" said the demon. "That's how they
start."
"I thought it was, 'In the beginning...'"
"That's the Bible. The Ten Commandments are a different thing."
"Oh."
"You didn't believe in God, see? That's pretty much the only
major no-no left. God doesn't like killing all that much and
stealing isn't considered a GOOD thing, but he's really mellowed
out lately. You can do pretty much all you want in the previous
life and get away with it. But he still has a HUGE ego."
"God has an ego?"
"Wouldn't you? I mean, he's the Creator. He's omnipotent. You'd
feel pretty damn proud of yourself if you could make a rock that
even you couldn't pick up."
"Well... I suppose."
"Suppose? Of course you would." He demon turned towards Richard
on the bench. "Here, look. You led a pretty morally upright
life. You never killed anybody. You didn't steal much. You were
a pretty good neighbor. You did unto others once in a while. You
even turned the other cheek occasionally. Remember Harvey
Wellman? You lent him your coat once."
Richard blinked slowly. "So why am I in Hell?"
"Because you didn't believe in God! That's the big thing. You're
in Hell because you're an atheist."
Richard's brow furrowed for a moment and his mouth hung slightly
opened. "But..." he started, stopping with his mouth further
open.
"Hmm?" said the demon.
"But I never really gave it all that much thought."
"So?"
Richard began to speak again, launching into words and then
pulling up short. He paused for a moment, concentrating.
Occasionally, he would let out an exasperated breath and tilt
his head to the side.
"I'll wait," said the demon, his eyes wandering away from
Richard and around the bus station.
Richard sat silently for three or four more minutes.
Occasionally, he would grab hold of a concept only to have it
skitter away when he tried to hold it too tightly. It was like
trying to carry a dozen really big trout.
"But--" Richard finally offered. "But that's not fair!"
The demon suddenly turned towards Richard. "What?"
"That's not fair," Richard said.
A small smile broke across on the demon's face. "Not fair?" he
asked.
"Yeah," Richard said. "Not fair. Not fair at all."
The demon was leaning eagerly towards Richard. "Why?" he asked.
"Tell me why."
"Well, I led a good life. You even said so yourself. I was a
good person."
"Let's not go overboard here."
"No, no. I was a good person. A decent, caring person. People
loved me!"
"So?"
"Well," Richard said, counting off his fingers. "I was a good
person. People loved me. And now I'm in Hell."
"So?" the demon said again.
"That's not fair!"
"But why?" The demon strained even further forward.
Richard paused. "Well. Well, I'm only here because I didn't
believe in God. I followed all the rules. Even if I didn't know
they were the rules, I followed them. I ended up losing anyway.
That doesn't seem very fair."
The demon looked at him with a pained expression. "'Seem very
fair?'" he said.
Richard gathered himself and shook his dead vigorously. "No. No.
In fact, it's not fair at all. It's not even a little fair."
"So what you're saying," said the demon, "is that you're a
political prisoner."
"What?"
"A political prisoner. You're here simply because of your
beliefs. Because you didn't think what the powers-that-be wanted
you to think."
Richard's eyes opened wide and he nodded his head. "Yeah!" he
blurted. "Yeah. Exactly. That's exactly what I mean. That's not
fair."
The demon crossed his arms across his chest and leaned
comfortably back. "Bummer," he said.
Richard looked confused for a brief moment. "What do you mean,
'Bummer'?"
"Bummer," said the demon again.
Richard's shoulders slumped and he let out a sputtering breath.
"Well, this sucks!" he said. "This really sucks!"
The demon smiled. "Good enough," he said to himself.
Greg Knauss
-------------
Greg Knauss is loopy as a loon, and has a Political Science
degree from UC San Diego. He has no job, no life, and nothing to
do. In the meantime, he has written two "Star Trek: The Next
Generation" scripts, one of which has been roasting in the fires
of the ST:TNG production office for four months with no
response. Greg has also written for numerous Atari computer
magazines, all of which have since been driven out of business.
A connection? You be the judge.
FYI
=====
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